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 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 THE 
 
 VICTIM OF VILLANY, 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUIMES. 
 BY MRS. HUNTER, 
 
 OF NORWICH, 
 
 AUTHOR OF LETITIA; the unexpected rEGACV; THE HISTORY Op 
 THE CRUBTHORPE FAMILY ; PALMERSTONe's XETTERS, d\C, S^C» 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR W. EARLE AND J. W. HUCRLEBRIDGE; 
 AND SOLD BY \V. EARIE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STKEETj GEORGE 
 ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW ; B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER'S 
 
 court; tho. osteli, ave maria lahe^ and Alt ©TH£R 
 
 BOOKSEILERS. 
 
 1806. 
 
XSamarA 4; ^Uur, WaUr Zane, Fleet Street.) 
 

 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In presenting the following pages 
 to the Public, I conceive it to be 
 incumbent on me to say, that Miss 
 vi Cowley's letters to her friend will 
 be found to contain nearly the whole 
 of a narrative, from which, 1 trust, 
 my readers may draw a lesson of 
 morality, as well as of gratification to 
 that curiosity ^yhich anew Novel often 
 excites, but sometimes disappoints. 
 My claims to candour are conse- 
 quently few; for as the Editor, ra- 
 ther than the Author, I beg leave to 
 observe, that with the materials 
 before me, I have balanced, pretty 
 equally as I think, my hopes of my 
 readers' favour, with my fears of their 
 frowns ; and I stand chargeable with 
 
no more than an -error in -judgment, 
 or too much i.artiality for Miss 
 Cowley's talents, in having preferred 
 her pen to my own. 
 
 ' It is, however, indispensibly neces- 
 sary, that I should prepare the way 
 for her appearance as a candidate 
 for public notice; and with as much 
 of brevity as of fidelity, do I intend 
 to make my first chapter useful to 
 this purpose, by detailing siich par- 
 ticulars of her family, birth, and 
 circumstances of fortune, as are re- 
 quisite for the better knowledge and 
 illustration of those occurrences 
 which engaged her time and atten- 
 tion, and furnished the principal 
 subjects for her pen. 
 
LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 THE 
 
 VICTIM OF VILLANY. 
 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 Mr. COWLEY, father of Miss Cow- 
 ley, was, at an early age, left an orphan, 
 with an ample inheritance in Jamaica, 
 the place of his birth. He. was consigned 
 by, the will of his father, who had sur- 
 vived his mother, to the guardianship of 
 a gentleman who resided in London, and 
 Avho, in his commercial concerns, had for 
 a course of years evinced an integrity, 
 founded on the liberal principles of an 
 enlightened mind and a cultivated un- 
 derstanding. The care of his estate was 
 left in the hands of a friend, not less 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 qualified for this more subordinate office. 
 He lived on the spot; and was enriched 
 by the vigilance and honesty with which 
 he discharged his duty. His first care 
 after his benefactor's decease, was to send 
 the young heir to England, for the pur- 
 pose of his improvement ; and his /Lon- 
 don guardian, not only placed him within 
 the reach of the attainments requisite for 
 his future happiness, but by his truly 
 parental care and tenderness, gave him 
 the fairest example of the influence and 
 benefits resulting from a conduct govern- 
 ed by virtue and solid wisdom. Thus 
 secured on all sides by a gracious Provi- 
 dence, Henry Cowley lived to reach his 
 twenty-first year; when, by the sud- 
 den death of his benevolent friend, 
 he found himself master of his time, his 
 fortune, and his amusements. But love 
 had provided an armour of defence 
 against the seductions of the world; and 
 the difficulties he had to surmount in 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 3 
 
 attaining the object of his affections, 
 gave to his youthful ardour pursuits far 
 remote from the clangers of dissipation. To 
 conquer the reluctance of Mrs. Dawson, 
 they oung lady's mother, to her daughter's 
 marrying him, or any other pretender to 
 her favour, was a trial, not only of his 
 patience and perseverance, but also .of 
 her daughter's health and spirits; for she 
 had long since given her heart to young 
 Cowley, and well knew that the only 
 impediment in the way to her union with 
 the man she loved, was the excessive and 
 fond attachment of her mother to her 
 society, and the wish of having no com- 
 petitor for a heart which she conceived 
 to be made only for herself The young 
 lady's declining spirits, and the argu- 
 ments urged by her lover, at length gained 
 a cold consent, to which were annexed 
 conditions that Cowley cheerfully agreed 
 to. These were principally confined to 
 the young couple's residence under her 
 
 B2 
 
4 
 
 roof, and a promise, never to hazard a 
 voyage to Jamaica without her concur- 
 rence. Satisfied on these essential points, 
 she hastened the nuptials, in order to 
 expedite her removal with her daughter 
 to Bristol Hot- Wells, whither she was 
 ordered by her physician; and entirely 
 regardless of procuring settlements, her 
 daughter being an only child, the party 
 proceeded from the altar to their destined 
 abode at Clifton; where health, peace, 
 and gaiety met the happy pair. Mrs. 
 Dawson's apprehensions for the life of her 
 beloved daughter, had not long subsided 
 before she became alarmed for herself: 
 the honey-moon continued longer than 
 her forbearance; she imagined herself 
 neglected. Fears and explanations were 
 succeeded by altercations, and fits of sul- 
 lenness and evenrudenessto poor Cowley; 
 who, in consideration of his wife's 
 tranquillity, redoubled his attentions to 
 her mother. This tribute of true affection 
 
TltE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 5 
 
 gained him nothing M^ith Mrs. Dawson, 
 for it unfortunately gave lier daugliter 
 an oppovt unity of observing, more than 
 once, that *' Mr. Cowley's behaviour to 
 her mother was of itself sufficient to en- 
 gage her love, her esteem and gratitude." 
 
 During the space, of three years the 
 amiable wife bore with patience these 
 jealous caprices of her mother ; not so 
 acquiescent was the husband : he was 
 weary of the contest, and the tender 
 Marian trembled for her husband's peace 
 and her owii future happiness. The 
 death of Mr. Cowley's faithful agent in 
 Jamaica, which happened at this period, 
 rendered a voyage thither indispensible 
 to Mr. Cowley. He explicitly placed 
 before his wife and her mother his inten- 
 tions to visit his patrimony; and left 
 them to decide whether he was to go unac- 
 companied by the only person who couIg 
 solace him in his absence from England, 
 
6 Lady maclairn, 
 
 Mrs. Cowley firmly declared her purpose 
 of going with him, and to every argu- 
 ment and intreaty used by her mother, 
 applied the same answer: — **My duty, my 
 affection, my very life, urge me to un- 
 dertake a voyage which my husband 
 hazards; and were it round the world I 
 would cheerfully share the dangers with 
 my Cowley." Let it suffice that Mrs. 
 Cowley persevered, and from the hour of 
 her daughter's departure, her mother 
 nourished an irreconcilable hatred to Mr. 
 Cowley; attributing to his cruelty and 
 undue authority the absence of his wife, 
 "who was not permitted to love even her 
 mother, nor that mother to shelter her 
 from his tyrannical temper." 
 
 Candour as well as the proofs before mc, 
 exact from my pen, however, some quali- 
 fications, which will soften down to the 
 weakness of human nature these severe 
 traits in Mrs. Dawson's character; for it 
 would be unjust not to give it more 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 7 
 
 favourable lineaments, and amongst seve- 
 ral, it is proper to distinguish one, namely, 
 her generous cares in sheltering under her 
 roof a young lady, who was left an orphan 
 for more than three years, at the end of 
 which period she married happily. As 
 this act of friendship and benevolence on 
 Mrs. Dawson's part produced a course of 
 active and important duties on the young 
 kdy's, and as these are materially con- 
 nected" with my narrative, it must be 
 allowed me to mention more particularly 
 the advantages which had, at this period 
 of my history, accrued to Mrs. Dawson, 
 from her kind protection of Miss Otway.. 
 Her age, her various talents, and her at- 
 tractive virtues, had contributed to form 
 Marian Dawson's mind, and to obviate the 
 evils of her mother's unlimited indul- 
 gence. Till her marriage with Ain 
 Hardcastle, to whom she had been en- 
 gaged before she lost her father, and 
 whom from prudential motives she refus- 
 s4 
 
ed to marry when deprived of this sup- 
 port, her whole attention had been given 
 to Miss Dawson's education ; and al- 
 though the instructress and the pupil 
 differed not in age more than two or 
 three years, nothing less than the blind- 
 est folly could have overlooked the rich 
 recompence which Mrs. Dav/son derived 
 from her kindness to MissOtway: themost 
 perfect friendship andconfidence subsisted 
 between the young women. Cowley was 
 the intimate friend of Mr. Hardcastle^ 
 though several years younger than him- 
 self, and few of Mrs. Dawson's connec- 
 tions doubted of the share which the 
 Hardcastles had taken in the unhappy 
 dissentions caused by Mrs. Dawson's iil- 
 regulated fondness to her child.. It is 
 certain, that both Mr. and Mrs. Cowley 
 had the concurrence of these friends in 
 regard to the measures they pursued ; 
 and with the most sanguine hopes of 
 succeeding, they both engaged to spare 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXr. 9 
 
 no pains in reconciling Mrs. Dawson to the 
 temporary absence of her son and daugh- 
 ter, nor in preparing her to expect Mr. 
 Cowley to have an establishment of Iris 
 own at his return. Faithful to their en- 
 gagements, they in part effected their pur- 
 }>ose. Their attentions soothed the afflict- 
 ed mother. She found that she was not 
 wholly abandoned; she talked of her 
 poor unhappy child till compassion had 
 subdued resentment, and tinie had ba- 
 nished tears and bewailings; and Mrs. 
 Dawson again tasted the comforts of 
 health, affluence, and friendship, altliough 
 still dead to the pleasure of J or given ess^ 
 probably, because it was less painful to 
 hate Cowley than to reproach herself. 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle's succession to his un* 
 cle's estate of about live or six hundred 
 pounds per annum, induced a clmnge 
 in his plans of life. He gave up his pro- 
 fession in the law, and retired to his in- 
 
10 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 heritance with his lady and child, then an 
 infant, Mrs. Dawson suffered little from 
 this change, for she passed months at a 
 time with them in the country, and en- 
 joyed the variety of the seasons with 
 health, and few regrets beyond her 
 usual topic for discontent. " Seven years 
 a wife without the chance of being a 
 Biother," had not been unfrequently ad- 
 verted to by Mrs. Dawson, as a proof of 
 Mr. Cowley's demerits in the sight of 
 Heaven. ** He, that so fervently wished for 
 children ! But his wretched temper would 
 have its punishments." Alas ! his fond 
 and too eager wishes had most unquest- 
 ionably their disappointment in the hour 
 of their fruition; for, in consequence af 
 a fever which no skill could overcome, he 
 lost his wife six weeks after she had given 
 liim a daughter. Mrs. Dawson sunk un- 
 der this heavy stroke. Nothing remain- 
 ed but her enmity to Cowley; and in 
 order to gratify this, she made her wilL 
 
tHE VICTIM OF VILLANY. M 
 
 To Rachel Marian Cowley, her grand- 
 daughter, she bequeathed all her property; 
 but subjected it to conditions, which 
 sufficiently marked her hatred to the 
 infant's father. In case Mr. Cowley sub- 
 mitted to relinquish the rights of a 
 parent, and to place his daughter under 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle's care, the chikl 
 was immediately after her decease to be 
 conveyed to England, and given into 
 their protection. On this condition, she 
 was entitled to the annual interest result- 
 ing from the sum which constituted her 
 fortune, and which was vested in the 
 public funds, to the amount of a capital 
 which produced more than six hundred 
 pt)unds per annum. The father's refusal 
 to concede to these terms, restricted her 
 from the fortune till she was twenty-one, 
 or till she married with the consent of Mr. 
 Hardcastle and the other trustee appoint- 
 ed to this duty. In case of her death 
 beforje she could claim her fortune, th^ 
 lb 6 
 
12 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 whole sum, with its accumulations, was 
 left to Mr. Hardcastle and his family. Sa- 
 tisfied with this disposition of her worldly 
 possessions, she appeared to have reco- 
 vered her usual health and composure, 
 except when speaking of her grand-child. 
 On these affecting occasions, her only 
 consolation appeared to rise from Mr. 
 and Mrs. Hardcastle's reiterated promises 
 to receive the child, whenever Mr. Cowley 
 should think it proper to claim their 
 kind offices. They repeated this assurance 
 in the most solemn terms, and Mrs. Hard- 
 castle, with ceaseless labour, endeavoured 
 to ^^L on her mind the persuasion, that 
 Mr. Cowley would think of no one but 
 himself for so precious a charge. Mrs. 
 Dawson w^as suddenly removed by an 
 apoplectic fit the following winter; and 
 Counsellor Steadman, her executor and 
 trustee, in communicating to Mr. Hard- 
 castle the contents of Mrs. Dawson's last 
 will and testament, was neither surprised 
 
^ THE VICTIM or VILLA^Y, 13 
 
 nor offended at the sferitiffifflls "his old 
 friend so warmly expressed, thqugh. they 
 were^ so opposite to the gratitude usually 
 bestowed ev^n on contingent donations; 
 and having informed Mr. Cov/ley of thl§ 
 event, audits consequences, he left him 
 to determine -at his leisure, on the fitness 
 of Mrs. Dawson's arrangements for his 
 daughter's benefit and security. 
 
 During this period of time, the unhap- 
 py Mr. Cowley was giving the most un- 
 equivocal andjiielancholy proofs to those 
 about him, of the affection he cherished 
 for his amiable and lost Marian. A lone: 
 and dangerous illness had succeeded to 
 lier death, the consequence of his at- 
 tendance, fatigue, and grief; and when 
 rescued from the grave by the vigour of his 
 constitution, his friends found his mind 
 sunk into the deepest gloom.- From this 
 deplorable condition, he was gradually 
 roused by thesightof his infant daughter. 
 
I^ LADY MACLA'IRIN-, 
 
 Happily the child was healthy, and had 
 for its preservation an attendant well 
 qualified to supply a mother's cares. 
 Mrs. Cowley, on quilting England, had 
 fortunately^ secured in the female attend- 
 ant who accompanied her, more than the 
 talents aud fidelity of a domestic. Mrs. 
 Allen was a widow ; she had been well 
 instructed in her youth, and matured in 
 wisdom and knowledge by a natural good 
 sense, and the discipline of adversity.. 
 The femme de chambre was forgotten 
 in the usual friend and companion of the 
 voyage, and Mrs. Cowley introduced 
 Mrs. Allen to her new circle in a manner: 
 suitable to her merits. To this excellent 
 woman she in some sort bequeathed her 
 infant, engaging her, in the most affect- 
 ing terms, to watch over the child till it 
 was safe with Mrs. Hardcastle, who had 
 promised her to be its parent when in 
 England. This request was enforced by 
 Mr. Cowley also ; and Mrs. Allen forgot 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. IS 
 
 not her obligations in the performance of 
 her duty. From the time of her lady's 
 death, as she always called Mrs. Cowley, 
 she regularly corresponded with Mrs. 
 Hardcastle ; and from her letters to this 
 lady, I have learned to judge both of Mr* 
 Cowley's attachment to his wife and child, 
 and of Mrs. Allen's good sense. I shall 
 transcribe a part of one of the letters she 
 wrote to Mrs. Hardcastle, when the child 
 was something more than three years old: 
 it delineates the condition of a father 
 seeking refuge from sorrow in the indul- 
 gence of fondness, the fruits of which 
 are too often found in bitter repentance. 
 After an account of Mr. Cowley's im* 
 proved health, and incessant demands on 
 her little charge for the cheerfulness he 
 still needed, she thus proceeds: " Judge, 
 my dear Madam, what must be the re- 
 sult of this excessive fondness ! what 
 must be the condition of a being, liable 
 to contradiction and disappointment from 
 
16 LADY MACLAIRN; 
 
 the very tenure on which she holds her 
 being, who U3ust never be controuled in 
 her will, whose tears put Mr. Cowley 
 into a fever, and whose infant caprices 
 are laws which no one dare to disobey. 
 Nature, my dear Madam, has formed her 
 for a better purpose, than subduing her 
 fathers judgment by lier atti'active per- 
 son and irresiSLtble vivacity. But with 
 all the sportive charms of infancy, with, 
 I may say, redundant health and activity, 
 with beauty to dazzle all sober judgment 
 that views her in her happy moments, she 
 cannot impose on me, nor quiet my ap- 
 prehensions for her future life; for she has 
 passions which need the curb, and 
 those are hourly strengthening. Already 
 she is more despotic with her father than 
 he is with his slaves ; and my influence 
 with her depends only on her generous 
 nature. She cannot bear to see me 
 * grieve,' to use her language : she has 
 been just making her dear Allen * well,' 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. 'J7 
 
 This was tlie occasion : a young and 
 sweet-tempered negro girl in the house, 
 has been with my concurrence promoted 
 t^ her nursery; she plays with lier, and 
 is docile to my instructions. This, with 
 the singular beauty she possesses, have 
 gained her an interest with me, and I 
 have taught her to read, and the habits of 
 order. Marian was busy in making a cap 
 for her doll this morning, when sum- 
 ^loned to romp with her little tyrant. 
 She begged for a moment — it was granted ; 
 but Marian still plied her needle : a blow 
 on her face was the rebuke her tardiness 
 met with, and the poor girl's tears 
 followed it. No ways softened, * her dear 
 Missee' cuffed and kicked her, till I 
 interposed, and, with a sorrowful tone, 
 said, ' I must leave you, my child, you 
 will make me sick and sorrowful, for I 
 cannot love vou.' The storm was al- 
 layed ; and taking Marian by the hand, 
 she left me without speaking a singl^e 
 
18 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 worcL In a short time she i^turnedy 
 leading the poor girl laden with toys and 
 her finery. * Marian loves me now,* 
 said she, creepmg to my knees, * she has 
 kissed me — will not yoti? 1 am sorry. I 
 will be good, if it will make you well ; — 
 do smile, only smile once.' Such is the 
 child that claims your forming hand i 
 have pity on her. Madam; use your in- 
 fluence over her father, urge him to per- 
 form his duty ; every day she remain* 
 with him will render your task of iovf 
 and friendship more difficulty" 
 
 This Tetter produced its desired effect; 
 for, some months after its date, the follow- 
 ing one appears to have been addressed 
 to Mr. Hardcastle, from Mr. Cowley. 
 As it will serve to ascertain his character, 
 I shall transcribe its contents. — ** Your 
 wife has conquered, my dear friend. I have 
 at length summoned up resolution to be 
 a parent and a man Good God ! thou 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 19 
 
 Only knowest the price of the sacrifice to 
 my duty ! and thou only canst render it 
 propitious to thy creature ! But I will still 
 hope in thy mercies. My child, Hard- 
 castle, has been spared hitherto ; she has 
 happily encountered, not only the diseases 
 peculiar to her tender age, but also the 
 small-pox, which she has had, since our 
 last dispatches, in the mildest form, and 
 is now in perfect health. To what pur- 
 pose has she been thus preserved ? Not to 
 be the victim of my doating fondness. 
 My promise to her dear mother shall be 
 fulfilled, and whilst it is yet time to save 
 her from a father's weakness. Captain 
 Vernon, who loved her mother, and whose 
 attachment to this child is httleless than 
 my own, shall be entrusted with her ; 
 and Mrs. Allen will attend her. You 
 may expect to see her with the next 
 Jamaica fleet.'* 
 
 *' I have only to observe to you, as. I 
 
UO LADY 
 
 have clone to Counsellor Steadman, that 
 I consider Mrs. Dawson's legacy to my 
 daughter, as totally remote from any cal- 
 culations of her expences as my child ; 
 I shall never interfere with him as to the 
 disposal of the money. I have long since 
 forgotten Mrs. Dawson's weaknesses and 
 prejudices, nor did I need any induce- 
 ment for my conduct of the nature she 
 supposed. My wife's dying request in 
 regard to her infant, shall be religiously 
 observed ; and it is an unspeakable con- 
 solation to me to know, that the friend 
 whom she appointed as her substitute, is 
 as willing to engage in the duty as she 
 expected. I shall remit you annually 
 eight hundred per annum for her and 
 Mrs. Allen's maintenance under your roof. 
 You know that this excellent woman is 
 bound by her engagement to her mother 
 to serve her. You know the station she 
 has filled in my house since the death of 
 my. wife. JMrs. Hardcastle is prepared to 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. S> I 
 
 ineet in her a valuable addition to her 
 family : she will not be disappointed ; for 
 her modest worth will ensure her a wel- 
 come in any abode where virtue dwells. 
 
 ** I entreat you, my dear Hardcastle, to 
 curb your disinterested spirit, whilst I in- 
 dulge my provident one, as it relates to 
 my child's accommodations. She must 
 have a nursing maid, she will need a car- 
 riage ; and I have explained myself fully 
 to the counsellor on these points. In re- 
 gard to my expectations as these relate to 
 my child's advantage, they are incalcu- 
 lable ! I fondly hope when we meet again 
 to behold her adorned in the attractive 
 graces of modesty and gentleness, rich in 
 piety, and principled in duty : such was 
 her mother, and to Mrs. Hardcastle was 
 she indebted for the example slie rivalled. 
 Forget not to prepare her for wealth, she 
 Avill be probably r.*aiongst the number of 
 those whom the world envies. Teach her, 
 
22 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 Hardcastle, the duties annexed to wealth, 
 and give her those treasures that will am- 
 ply supply the want of gold." 
 
 The remaining part of the letter is sup^ 
 pressed as useless to the subject before us, 
 although it marks the utmost anxiety and 
 tenderness for the object of Mr. Cowley's 
 eiares. 
 
 Rachel Cowley had nearly attained 
 her fifth year, when she was joyfully re- 
 (feived in London by Mrs. Hardcastle. 
 Mrs. Allen had prudently refused to have 
 any attendant with her on the voyage, 
 and had not Captain Vernon's fondness 
 for her pupil frustrated her designs, it is 
 probable the httle rebel to authority 
 might have appeared to greater advant- 
 age in the eyes of wisdom than she did. 
 But the extreme loveliness of her person, 
 her near affinity to a friend still tenderly 
 regretted, and the circumstances under 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT. 23 
 
 which she beheld her, soon rendered Mrs. 
 Hardcastle favourably disposed towards a 
 child whose misfortune it had been, to be 
 from her birth the idol of slaves, and the 
 ruler of their master. A few days were 
 given to Mrs. Allen's business and the 
 child's repose in town, when they were 
 conducted to thehome which Heaven had 
 graciously destined for them. 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle's house was a fit abode 
 for its inmates, and from the hour it be- 
 came the family residence, Mr. Hard- 
 castle had given up a profession he never 
 loved, and relinquished the pursuits of 
 the barrister for those of the farmer, and 
 the indulgence of a taste which had ren- 
 dered his habitation an ornament to the 
 adjacent country. The little stranger 
 was met at Worcester by Mr. Hardcastle 
 and his two children. This excursion was 
 short for them, but its dehghts were of 
 importance, for it prepared the new 
 
M LADY MACLAIllN, 
 
 comer for the pleasures of Heathcot- 
 Farm ; and by the time the little group 
 had reached the room appointed for their 
 recreation, the epithets of brother and 
 sister were become favourites. It may' 
 appear useless minutia to delineate the 
 characters of the children thus become 
 our heroine's playmates ; but no author 
 is without opinions of his own: and in 
 consequence of the privileges which my 
 own pen at this period of my history 
 gives me, I think it necessary to de- 
 scribe Mrs. Hardcastle's pupils. 
 
 Lucy Hardcastle had nearly attained 
 her eighth year, when her mother's du- 
 ties were called upon in favour of Miss 
 Cowley. Horace, her brother, was not 
 yet seven, and of a disposition so similar 
 to that of the little stranger, that he soon 
 engrossed her favour and preference. Of 
 Lucy it might be said, that nature had 
 cast her in a mould so perfect, that for 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. '2o 
 
 every proof of punctual care and tender- 
 ness, she paid "love — fair looks —and true 
 obedience," 
 
 '^ Still thinking all too little payment 
 for so great a debt," the judicious mo- 
 ther of these children had, from the first 
 indications of the difference which na- 
 ture had marked in their characters, 
 "applied to each the peculiar culture which 
 each demanded.; and though the bold 
 and vigorous shoots of her son's ardent 
 spirit were still unsubdued, yet she had 
 trained him to obedience and docility by 
 the firmness and gentleness of her guid- 
 ing hand; and force could meet con- 
 tradiction Avithout petulance. His acti- 
 vity, his gay and volatile spirits, en- 
 deared him to a companion as fearless 
 of danger and fatigue as himself^ and 
 whose ingenuity rivalled his own in expe- 
 dients to direct and enjoy every interval 
 of time allotted to play. la the first 
 c 
 
Q6 lady mac LAI rn, 
 
 instance of Mrs. Hardcastle's exercise of 
 Iicr jurisdiction, she had found Horace 
 a very useful agent in her purposes of 
 ^visdom. Her new pupil, with infantile 
 fondness, was ambitious of learning all 
 that Horace learnt, and she became sta- 
 tionary at his elbow with her lesson 
 vrhilst he studied his, in order that she 
 niio'ht run and frolic with him when his 
 task was accomplished. Without trac- 
 ing the probable effects of these early 
 impressions on minds constituted to love 
 vtud harmonize with each other, it shall 
 sufiice, that it was frequently observed 
 in the family, that the habit of yielding 
 110 her will to Horace, was become so 
 easy a lesson to Rachel Cowley, that she 
 practised compliance even with her maid- 
 servant. As she advanced in age, this 
 preference became more useful to her, and 
 more noticed by those around her; and 
 the. obvious stimulus to every exertion of 
 her talents, was the wish to please her 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXT. ^7 
 
 " brother Horace." Mrs. Hard castle 
 was gratified by the effects v/hich had 
 resulted from the uniform principles of 
 her pupil's mind, and from which had 
 sprung the most promising of her hopes, 
 as these fondly contemplated the future 
 excellencies and happiness of a young 
 creature endeared to her heart by time, 
 and ties not less strong than those of the 
 mother to a favoured child. The good 
 Mrs. Allen, eno-ao-ed in her subordinate 
 diilics of watching over the personal 
 comforts of the children, saw with de- 
 light the impetuosity of her dealing's 
 temper gradually yielding to the mild 
 controul of the timid Lucy, and ever}' 
 angry passion bowing down to the check 
 of Horace's eye. But Mi\ Hardcastle, 
 alive to everv su2:2:estion of a mind scru- 
 pulously just, and whose acquaintance 
 with the human heart was founded on ex- 
 perience more than on the speculations of 
 theorists and philosophers, could without 
 c 2 
 
2S LADY MACLAIIIN, 
 
 difficulty recal the period, at which, in 
 the elegant language of our poetress, he 
 might himself have addressed his wife 
 when a girl of eleven or twelve years old 
 with these harmonious lines: 
 
 *' When first upon your tender cheek 
 I saw the morn of beauty break 
 
 ^Vith mild and cheering beam, 
 I bow'd before your infant shrine, 
 'i'he earliest sighs you had were mine, 
 
 And you my darling theme. 
 
 " I saw you in that opening morn, 
 For beauty's boundless empire born, 
 
 And first confess'd your sway; 
 And e'er your thoughts, devoid of art, 
 Could learn the value of a heart, 
 
 I gave my heart away/' 
 
 The peculiar circumstances of fortune 
 in which Miss Cowley had heen left by 
 Mrs. Dawson's will, her prospects in life, 
 and above all, the confidence which her 
 father had placed in her principles, 
 
THK VICTIM OF VILLANY. ^9 
 
 strengthened his apprehensions for his 
 son's future conduct, and the consc- 
 rtuences to be expected from so apparent 
 an attachment and sympathy in charac- 
 ter, as his vigilant eye detected in the 
 mutual, though childish conversation of 
 a boy and a girl. He communicated his 
 fears to his wife ; and the separation 
 which followed, was the tribute which 
 virtue and rectitude exacted from the 
 tender parents, Horace was serit to his 
 maternal uncle's, to complete his educa- 
 tion; and the same year Mrs. Hardcastic 
 commenced her annual visit to London, 
 for three months, in order to give her 
 young charge, then in her twelfth year, 
 the advantages of the first-rate masters 
 in those accomplishments which her for- 
 tune rendered necessary A circle of 
 friends, Avho, like herself, conceived that 
 no girl beyond the age of infancy could 
 be better placed than in the drawing- 
 room, in a society composed of botli 
 c 3 
 
50 XADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 sexes, qualified and disposed to be useful 
 to their innocence and improvement, 
 bounded Mrs. Hardcastle's town amuse- 
 ments, and spared her the lessons neces- 
 sary to the young candidate for notice, 
 who at a certain age is emancipated from 
 theroutine o f a school, or a nursery in' 
 the attic ; or in other words, " brought 
 out" for the gaze of idle curiosity, and 
 to be disposed of to the highest bidder. 
 
 Rachel Cowley's introduction to the 
 world was unmarked by any ^clat of this 
 kind ; and whilst probably she and her 
 friend Lucy were daily acquiring good 
 manners and knowledge, they neither 
 suspected nor thought of the extent ot 
 the obligations they were under to those 
 who were forming their minds, and de- 
 termining their future taste for the en- 
 joyments of rational and responsible 
 beings. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 51 
 
 During this period of Miss Co^\'ley's 
 life, her father had gradually recovered 
 liis health and spirits ; urged by the re- 
 monstrances and arguments of his friends, 
 he had, on parting M'ith his daughter, em- 
 ployed his leisure, and diverted his mind 
 by building a house on a newly purchased 
 plantation nearer to Kingston, and within 
 the reach of a friend to whom he was 
 peculiarly attached. Amused by this 
 object of pursuit, he was led to other 
 improvements of the spot; and in his new 
 abode he saw another Eden bloom, 
 without the sad recollection which had 
 haunted his footsteps in the favourite 
 retreat of his still regreted wife and his 
 beloved child. Mr. Cowley, in conse- 
 quence of his multiplied avocations, and 
 the renewal of his social feelings, became 
 satisfied with mentioning from time to 
 time his intention of visiting England. 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle was no .stranger to 
 c4 
 
32 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 the real cause of his friend's delay, but 
 his prudence concealed fram his ward a 
 subject of regret to liimself, and of con- 
 cern to his wife and Mrs. Allen. The 
 negro girl who had been selected, for the 
 sweetness of her temper and the graces 
 of nature, as the playmate in Miss Cow- 
 ley's nursery, had gained the notice of 
 her father, and had enjoyed Mrs. Alien's 
 attentions to her improvement in useful 
 learning. It had been debated wliether 
 Marian might not have been serviceable 
 to her young lady during the voyage : 
 the proposal had been rejected ; for 
 Mrs. Allen perfectly understood that the 
 comphances of a slave were not of that 
 sort which her pupil needed. She there- 
 fore left the girl to the care of the house- 
 keeper, and in a condition of ease and 
 comfort under Mrs. Cowley's roof Poor 
 Cowley was soothed in his first depres- 
 sion of spirits on losing sight of his idol, 
 by finding he had a sharer in his sorrow ; 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA XV. S'^ 
 
 and he oTatified liis benevolence by beins^ 
 Marian's consoler. She in her turn 
 solaced his lonely hours by talking of 
 her *' dear missee," and accompanying 
 liini in his walks. Habits of affection 
 and kindness were thus nuitually formed, 
 and gave rise to an attachment incompa- 
 tible with innocence and honour. At an 
 early age jNIarian was formally emanci- 
 pated from her chains as a jiegro slave, 
 in order to bear the shackles of a mistress. 
 But in this deviation from his hitherto 
 regular and moral conduct, Mr. Cowley 
 forgot not decorin?i ; his favourite resided 
 with privacy at the more remote planta- 
 tion, which was called the Creek Savan- 
 nah, and he lived in the new house ah'cafly 
 mentioned. His Friends, who loved him, 
 overlooked a frailty which unfortunate!}- 
 was not particularly Mr. Cowley's weak* 
 ncss: butthey did more; for they attributed 
 his conduct to the steady pur{)0se of re- 
 maining unmarried for his daughters sake. 
 c 5 
 
34/^ LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 Mr. Hard castle's opinions were not of 
 this pliant sort; but he well knew that 
 his arguments would be lost on a man 
 who had silenced his own principles of 
 religious observances : certain that Miss 
 Cowley had experienced no failure of 
 her father's affection or generosity, he 
 contented himself with performing his 
 duty, and providing against the conse- 
 quences so unavoidably connected with 
 Mr. Cowley's absence from his child. 
 He well knew, that without the recipro- 
 cal acts of love and duty, the ties of con- 
 sanguinity would be feeble. He had 
 daily proofs that Miss Cowley was little 
 affected by the protracted promises con- 
 tained in her father's letters; that her 
 happiness was centered in the bosom of 
 his family, and that the thought of being 
 separated from it, never occurred as with- 
 in the line of probability. Every means 
 of prudence had been applied to obviate 
 this evil. Conversations had been pur** 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAN'Y. 35 
 
 posely appointed, to keep up in licr me- 
 mory '* licr dear father," his affection for 
 her, " his sacrifice of his comforts for 
 her hencfit." *' His generosity and ami- 
 able temper" were traced with minute- 
 ness; and her petitions to Heaven includ- 
 ed mercies for a parent, so justly enti- 
 tled to her duty and Iovt. These lessons 
 of wisdom had not been lost on the 
 docile heart of the child. She listened 
 with pleasure to these tales of her ^* good 
 papa," and forgot him when clinging to 
 her *' mamma Hardcastle." As she ad- 
 vanced in age, Mr. and Afrs. Hardcastle 
 more assiduously attended to the views 
 before them; and with the entire persua- 
 sion of their own rninds, that the time 
 was rapidly approaching, vhen Mr. 
 Cowley would recal his daughter, they 
 endeavoured to prepare her for the sum- 
 mons. To this intent, Mrs. Hardcastle 
 sometimes read to her extracts from her 
 mother's letters, in which she described 
 c 6 
 
36 LADY MAC LA I RX, 
 
 the natural beauties of Jamaica ; the so- 
 ciety she had met with; the estimation 
 in which her husband was held ; her 
 own amusements and happy hfe; and 
 the activ^ity and benevolent cares which 
 supplied to her husband an indemnifica- 
 tion for the absence of his London 
 friends. Unacquainted with disguise, 
 Miss Cowley left no doubt on IVIrs. 
 Hardcastle's mind as to the impressions 
 which these letters and her conversa- 
 tions produced. Anxious wishes for her 
 father's settling in London, and a declar- 
 ed repugnance to living in Jamaica, were 
 the constant result of these attempts; 
 and it was now become necessary to call 
 upon a reason sufficiently cultivated to 
 yield an assent to every argument of 
 duty. Alarmed by an earnestness which 
 she considered as immediately springing 
 from Mr. Hardcastle's knowing her fa- 
 ther's intention of recalling her home, 
 she wrote to him a letter expressive of 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 37 
 
 her fears, and to implore him to leave a 
 country in which she slionld be miser- 
 able. The reply to this letter is before 
 me. ]\fr. Cowley assures his (Uiughter, 
 that he has no intention of endan^'erins: 
 lier health and safety in a voyage to 
 liim, nor any plans before him which 
 will remove her from the protecting arms 
 of " her dear Mrs. Hardcastle." He 
 thus proceeds : *' The habits of many 
 years have made my avocations pleasur- 
 able : indicision and indolence stand 
 in the >ray of your wishes and my own 
 views ; yet I hope to be with you next 
 ycai' in your dear foggy island. Be sa- 
 tisfied, my dear Rachel, with this as- 
 surance, and believe that my procrasti- 
 nation proceeds from my regard for 
 your happiness, not from any abatement 
 of my tenderness. You are, my child, 
 under the eye of a mother, qualified to 
 render you worthy of the one who bore 
 you. I am not jealous of her ascend- 
 
38 LADY MACLATR^^, 
 
 ancy over you; tell her so ; and that you 
 
 liave my permission to lov^e her as ten* 
 
 derly as you can. She will be too just 
 
 and too generous to monopolize your 
 
 whole heart ; but she will not forget to 
 
 decorate that corner of it which your 
 
 father occupies, and which a husband 
 
 may share, with the ornament which 
 
 passeth shew. Continue, as you have 
 
 done, to deserve her maternal cares, and 
 
 remain the hope of your truly affection* 
 
 ate father, 
 
 *' Henry Cowley." 
 
 '^ P. S. I write to Hardcastle, and 
 Captain Vernon will inform you of my 
 good looks, tho' not in the rapturous 
 style in which he speaks of my lovely 
 girl, and his Heathcot holidays.'' 
 
THE VICTIM or VILLANY. 3^ 
 
 CHAP IL 
 
 1 HUS passed the first transient cloud 
 which had depressed the gaiety of I\Iiss 
 Cowley's temper; and, delighted by the 
 contents of her father's letter, the glow 
 of o^ratitude o-ave him an interest in her 
 bosom which she had never before felt, 
 and supplied her with a never-faihng 
 motive for proving herself worthy of such 
 a father. In the following winter all was 
 li'loom and sadness at lieathcot. Mrs. 
 Hardcastle was at first, to use her own 
 encouraging words, ** only slightly indis- 
 posed with a cold ;" but the malady Avas 
 of that sort which, whilst it represses 
 hope, fallaciously invites it; and the calm 
 
540 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 and patient invalid, unwilling to break 
 down its deceitful promises, aided the de- 
 ceiver by her endearing- smiles and uniform 
 serenity, till her strength was subdued, 
 and medicine was found useless. Month 
 had thus succeeded to month : durfng this 
 period Mrs. Hardcastle contemplated, 
 with a foresight of that recompense she 
 •was shortly to reach, the fruits of well- 
 doing, by witnessing the conduct of a 
 child who had for so many years shared 
 her maternal cares, and had been so pecu- 
 liarly an o]}ject of her solicitude and vigi- 
 lance. She beheld the restless and vola- 
 tile girl, stationed in the sick room, 
 sedate, tender, and assiduous ; prompt 
 in every soothing, kind office; dexterous 
 in every expedient to relieve and alle- 
 viate; patient of all opposition, and un- 
 wearied in watching by her side. She 
 saw her character rising into magnani- 
 mity as the danger augmented ; support- 
 ing by her fortitude the sinking spirits 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 41 
 
 of Lucy, and clieering the despondency 
 of My. riardcastle by arguments drawn 
 from a faith in which slie herself trusted 
 for support. She saw tlie pang of an- 
 guish checked by a smile of tender sym- 
 pathy ; and with the greetings of love 
 and assumed cheerfulness, she saw the 
 cheek of her beloved pupil pale with fa- 
 tigue and grief. PJorace could not be 
 kept from a scene of this kind ; he had 
 been summoned home some weeks be- 
 fore liis mother's case was judged hope- 
 less ; and Mrs. Hardcastle, either too 
 much occupied with different thoughts, 
 or too happy in the presence of her son 
 to attend to those cautions which had 
 banished him from his home, saw, with- 
 out shewing any inquietude, that time 
 had not weakened the affection of her 
 children. JNIiss Cowley seemed rather to 
 inviteher animadversions on her conduct, 
 as this related to Horace ; and one day 
 she even ventured to observe to the con- 
 
42 LADY MAC LAI RN, 
 
 tented motlier, \vho had been gratified 
 by some tender office in which Horace 
 had assisted, '' that she at least could 
 not be surprised by seeing that Horace 
 Hardcastle was still Rachel Cowley's 
 favourite:' The smile Math which this 
 observation was received had in it no- 
 thing for discouragement; and Mrs. 
 Hardcastle added, '' that she hoped he 
 would always be the favourite with the 
 wise and virtuous.'* 
 
 A few days before she expired, she 
 found, on awakmgfrom a lethargic slum- 
 ber, Miss Cow fey and Horace watching 
 at her bedside. *' You have been sleep- 
 ing, my dear mother," said Horace, '" and 
 we have insisted on Lucy and Mrs. Al- 
 len's going into the garden for a little 
 air.'' Miss Cowley during this time 
 was prepared with a cordial for the pa- 
 tient ; and she, raising herself, was sup^ 
 ported by her $qu. She took the offered 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 43 
 
 medicine in her feeble hands, and fixing 
 her eyes on Miss Cowley, said something, 
 but so low, that neither of the interested 
 witnesses of this scene could understand 
 it. '* Oh, it was her blessing," cried the 
 agonized Horace, ^^ her last blessing on" 
 
 '-'' my children^'" said the subdued 
 
 mother, sinking on her pillow, and 
 convulsively holding their hands in her 
 own. Horace, unable to maintain any 
 longer his self-command, hastily left the 
 room, and Miss Cowley silently gave 
 lierself up to tears. The exhausted 
 invalid again dosed ; and she breathed 
 her last sigh, without further confirming 
 the ardent wishes of those to whom her 
 concurrence would have been a sanction 
 for that affection which both believed 
 she wished not to oppose, and which 
 both as fondly hoped ^ would have ren- 
 dered her happy. 
 
 Sirs. Hardcastle's death appeared for si 
 
44 LADY MAC LA I Ry, 
 
 time to have overwhelmed the family 
 with all the force of a sudden and unex- 
 pected blow ; every one wanted consola- 
 tion, but none was found who could 
 administer it. Mr. Hardcastle was the 
 first who was capable of exertions; he 
 recollected Lucy, and the feelings of 
 the husband awakened those of the fa- 
 ther. Religion sheds its balm on its true 
 votaries: domestic comfort succeeded; 
 and Mr. Hardcastle in contemplating the 
 child before him, blessed Heaven for the 
 solace it gave to his sorrovr. 
 
 Lucy was not long without discover- 
 ing, that her brother had found a sweet 
 consolation in Miss Cowley's sympatliy 
 and society ; and she began to wonder, 
 that her father should have so apparently 
 overlooked what liad so recently called 
 forth her observation, namely, that Ho- 
 race, near twenty years old, was a miore 
 dangerous guest than when short of fifteen. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 45 
 
 Perfectly acquainted uith tlie motives 
 M'hicli liad led her lather to submit to 
 ]}is absence, she took an opporiunity 
 of remarkino; to her friend, tliat Ho- 
 race's unguarded behaviour Mould soon 
 ])anish him again from Pleathcot ; and 
 that she was surprised he liad been per- 
 mitted to stav so lono- uhich she solelv 
 attributed to his father's state of mind, 
 and his being so much alone. ^' If you 
 liad been as observant of my conduct 
 as of your brother's,'' replied Miss 
 Cowley \\ith seriousness, " you would 
 have perceived what you call the same 
 inxliscretion on my part ; for the truth 
 is, we wish not to conceal an affection 
 on which our happiness depends. Ho- 
 race knows that I love him, and I 
 know he loves me, and whether at 
 Heathcot or in the deserts of Arabia, we 
 shall live for each other. I am too 
 young, you will say," continued she 
 with increased seriousness of manner, 
 
46 5LADY MACLAIRK^, 
 
 ** to decide thus positively on a business 
 of such importance to my future happi- 
 ness. But I ansNver, that I am not a 
 romantic girl. I will stand the test of 
 time with cheerfulness ; for either I have 
 no title to the name of a natural being, 
 or I am qualified to judge of Horace's 
 title to my esteem and regard. I shall 
 place before my father, as soon as we 
 meet, the solid grounds I have for my 
 preference of your brother : I will leave 
 to his judgment and liberality of niind 
 to determine the time when I may be 
 supposed to know my own heart, and to 
 consider whether i\Ir. llardcastle's son 
 will be any disgrace to jNIr. Cowley of 
 his supposed vrealtli. But I have no 
 apprehensions on this point. i\Iy father 
 is a generous minded man. He married 
 for happiness himself, and he would 
 revolt at the idea of sacrificing \m 
 daughter at the shrine of avarice or 
 ambition. No, no, Lucy, ** added she 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 47 
 
 uitli animation," in attaching my affec- 
 tions to an honest and worthy man, I 
 liave not sinned against that authority 
 which my father claims; and to give me 
 to a Hardcastle for hfe will he the con- 
 summation of that parental love Avhich 
 consigned me into the hands of yofir 
 excellent mother. ITe will soon be here ; 
 he will appeal to your father's under- 
 standing and tried friendship ; Mr. Hard- 
 castle will discard his scruples, and sanc- 
 tion, with his consent, my right to the 
 name I revere. *' We shall be sisters," 
 *^ continued she, fondly kissing Lucy's 
 cheek. " One bond of love will unite 
 us for life. I have no fears." 
 
 Miss Hardcastle, fully convinced that 
 nothing could be gained in favour of 
 prudence and circumspection during the 
 influence of h»pes so sanguine in favour 
 of love, suffered lier friend's earnestness 
 to abave, without opposing her fond be- 
 
48 LADY MAC LAI RN. 
 
 lief by producing those difficulties which 
 she foresavN^ would arise to baffle her in- 
 tentions and to disturb her brother's 
 happiness. She soon quitted the room, 
 in order to consider those steps necessary 
 to its security, and the conduct she had 
 to pursue. But Lucy Hard castle had 
 been taught to consider a positive duty 
 as liable to no appeal from inclination. 
 She knew, that, in order to prevent ]\Iiss 
 Cowley's growing attachment to her 
 brother, her parents had yielded up^a 
 point, on Avhich depended their highest 
 satisfactions. Her mother had frequently 
 mentioned losing sight of her son, as one 
 of those privations which had exercised 
 her fortitude in a peculiar degree; and 
 that she could never have supported his 
 absence from his father's tuitioli, and her 
 own love, but from the considerations 
 of the duty she owed to Mr. Hardcastle, 
 and the reverence she felt for his judg- 
 ment. With this example before her, 
 
THE VICTI5I OF VILLANY. 49 
 
 Lucy hastily repaired to her father and 
 ingenuously imparted to him her owji 
 suspicions. " Disposed as I am," conti- 
 nued she smiling, " to favour those 
 lovers, I think it my duty, my dear Sir, 
 to refer myself to you. I shall soon be 
 Rachel's confidant, and governed as I 
 shall be, by my affection for her and for 
 my brother, I may be led to oppose your 
 will, and frustrate your plans of wisdom 
 and prudence. I am certain that their 
 early attachment is confirmed and 
 strengthened by their respectively disco- 
 vering the improvements which time has 
 produced in botli,'* 
 
 " I would rather see your brother dead^ 
 than the husband of this young crea- 
 ture!" replied Mr. Hardcastle, rising with 
 emotion ; ** or rather, let me implore death 
 for my relief, before I see him pointed 
 at as the base and interested purloiner of 
 this girl's affections! I know too well, 
 
 D 
 
50 LACY MACLAIRN^, 
 
 my child, the malignity of human na- 
 ture. In a case like this, no allowance 
 would be made, by far the greater part 
 of ihe world, for motives more pure and 
 honourable than a sordid consideration 
 of her wealth, — her attractive beauty, and 
 his age of passion. The natural results of 
 undepraved youth and innocence would 
 be set aside, in order to brand that fa- 
 ther with infamy, who thus provided for 
 his own son, by cheating another of 
 his daughter. But this is not all: you 
 know the tenor of Mrs. Dawson's will. 
 My honour and reputation have hung on 
 this child's life from the hour she has been 
 under my roof; for her death would se- 
 cure to me her grandmother's property. 
 Your dear mother, in this single instance, 
 opposed her opinion to mine. On point- 
 ing out to her the hazard of receiving 
 into our hands a child thus circum- 
 stanced, she laughed at my fears, and 
 asked me, whether her husband had so 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 51 
 
 lived, as to be in danger of any imputa- 
 tion on his integrity. ' Be more just to 
 yourself,' said she, with honest pride; 
 " the virtue which has marked your Hfe, 
 will be your security. You stand be- 
 yond the reach of that mahce whicli 
 would dare to conceive that Hardcastle 
 would take adv^antage of the helpless in- 
 nocence of an infant committed to his 
 care.' She urged her promise to Mrs. 
 C owley, and to Mrs. Dawson, and with 
 dignity, added, that Rachel Cowley could 
 be no wliere so secure as with her heirs. 
 ' We will perform our duty, my dear 
 husband,' said she, 'and trust to Hea- 
 ven for a recompence, of more value than 
 her money.' I was conquefed ;^and Hea- 
 ven in its mercy has preserved this child's 
 life. But what think you would be the 
 conclusions drawn from Horace's mar- 
 rying her? They are too apparent not 
 to be seen. ' Foiled in one expecta- 
 tion.' it will be said, 'Hardcastle has 
 
52 LADY MAC LAI RX, 
 
 succeeded in a more lucrative project. 
 A marriage will not only secure to his 
 son Mrs. Dawson's fortune, but Mr. 
 Cowley's princely revenue also ; and by 
 favouring his son's views, and entangling 
 the girl's heart, he has enriched his fa- 
 mily.' How would you repel a scandal 
 of this nature, my dear child? Not by 
 saying, that Miss Cowley loved your 
 brother; for that would only prove that 
 she had been betrayed by the insidious 
 flattery to which she was exposed. — I 
 liave been too heedless," added Mr. 
 liardcastle, ** my mind of late has been 
 
 , !" Mr. Hardcastle's firmness yielded 
 
 — he pressed Lucy to his bosom, and 
 wept audibly. 
 
 On reassuming his composure, he pro- 
 ceeded to inform his daughter, that he 
 had, for nearly a week, been hesitating 
 in what manner to ansM^er an applica- 
 tion, which Mr. Freeman, her uncle, had 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 6'3 
 
 transmitted to his consideration, relative 
 to Horace. ** You have, my dear girl, 
 been useful to your father; by your in- 
 formation," added he, ^*I shall no longer 
 want resolution. In regard to Miss Cow- 
 lev, remember that I wish not to inter- 
 rupt the confidence which subsists be- 
 tween you, nor will I tempt your ho- 
 nesty by a single question. You know 
 the reasons which force me to refuse to 
 your brother an object so worthy of his 
 admiration, and my tender regard. I 
 leave to your prudence to point out the 
 conduct you ought to pursue with your 
 friend ; and after you have perused your 
 uncle's letter, you will be prepared to 
 mention to her Horace's removal from 
 England.'' 
 
 Poor Lucy felt that virtue had its con- 
 flicts in her bosom ; and hastily retiring, 
 gave herself up to the regret of having, 
 by her interference, doomed her brother 
 P 3 
 
,54 LADY MACLATRN, 
 
 to an undetermined course of banish- 
 ment. 
 
 The subject of the letter in question 
 necessarily requires some information re- 
 lative to the character and situation of 
 the writer, Horace's uncle. The Rev. 
 Mr. Freeman having succeeded to a vil- 
 lage living, of about four hundred pounds 
 perannum, in the vicinity of Exeter, at an 
 advanced period of his life, and with the 
 peculiar habits of a man who had for 
 many years lived in his college, appeared, 
 on setthng in his excellent parsonage- 
 house, to have forgotten that **it was not 
 good for man to be alone." His friends 
 and neighbours frequently reminded him, 
 notwithstanding, that his house was too 
 large for a bachelor, and that he was 
 losing time. Mr. Freeman had already 
 experienced the justness of this latter 
 observation ; for, with painful regret, it 
 recalled to his memory, that his season for 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. 55 
 
 happiness was irrecoverably passed. lie 
 had been tenderly attached to an amiable 
 young woman at an early period of his 
 life ; and whilst his expectations were un- 
 decided in regard to that provision ne- 
 cessary for her security, his talents and 
 conduct soon distinguished him at the 
 university ; and, supported by mutual 
 esteem and hope, the lovers looked for- 
 wards to happiness. The death of the 
 lady interrupted this calm prospect. M\\ 
 I'reeman became a *' book- worm," '' a 
 quiz," and a tutor in his college, uho 
 suited no young man of spirit. Not- 
 withstanding this character, he had, with 
 all his singularities to boot, acquired 
 such a reputation for learning, and the 
 happy talent of communicating it, tliat 
 his friends seemicd dcternjined to pursue 
 liim to his retreat; and he at lengtli 
 yielded to the plan they proposed, of 
 receiving four pupils under his roof. 
 These were young men whose fathers 
 D 4 
 
S€ XADY MACLAJRM', 
 
 conceived a couple of years noviciate, 
 passed with Mr. Freeman, fully adequate 
 to the advantages of being freed from the 
 restraints of a grammar-school, for the 
 enjoyment of a fellow-commoner's gown. 
 Amongst the number of those who had 
 
 respected the ^* sanctified" tutor at 
 
 college, was the Duke of J , then at 
 
 the university. Some short time after 
 Horace Hardcastle had become an in- 
 mate in Mr, Freeman's house, this noble- 
 man's son was also consigned to his un- 
 cle's care, for the twofold purposes of his 
 education and the preservation of his 
 
 health. Lord William S- had, from his 
 
 cradle, been extremely delicate; and in 
 proportion as he grew up, consumptive 
 symptoms had appeared. Scotland had 
 been judged too unfriendly a climate for 
 so tender a plant, and the duchess had 
 serious arguments to produce against 
 every public seminary of learning. The 
 young man's father had not forgotten 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAN'Y, 5/ 
 
 his college tutor, and the mild air of 
 Devonshire promised an amendment in 
 health for his son. Mr. Freeman yielded 
 to a solicitation thus urged; and al- 
 though the pupil was not yet fourteen, 
 and intruded on the fixed number, he 
 was admitted. The amiable boy reach- 
 ed the priory before Horace had ceased 
 to repent his absence from Heathcot- 
 Farm ; and the young nobleman soon 
 found in him a companion more peculi- 
 arly attractive to his gentleness of tertt- 
 per, from the absence of that gaiety and 
 activity of spirit, which was so distin- 
 guished a characteristic of Ilorace/s 
 mind. Grateful to a youth, who, altlitjugh 
 bis senior, did not overlook him, as the 
 more advanced pupils did ; and who was 
 neither too wise for his amusement, nor 
 too insignificant for his associate, he 
 attached himself to Hardcastle, with all 
 the enthusiasm which results from warm 
 affections and an unpjerverted nature; 
 p5 
 
5B LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 and leaving to themselves the young 
 men whose attainments placed them 
 beyond their sphere of action, the newly 
 arrived pupils gradually cemented those 
 .bonds of friendship, which, with the vir- 
 tuous, not unfrequently prove the most 
 indissoluble. When Horace was sum- 
 moned to his mother's sick room, he had 
 left his companion under a severe at- 
 tack of the unrelenting cough ; and so 
 serious were now the symptoms of decay, 
 that it was determined he should try tlie 
 effects of sea-air and a voyage. A ves- 
 sel was prepared with the sole view to his 
 accommodation; a medical gentleman was 
 engaged to accompany him, and a tutor 
 was appointed for his guide and compa- 
 liion. Frequent voyages and short in- 
 tervals of refreshment in more southern 
 latitudes, were the objects of these ap- 
 rangements ; and the mild and uncom- 
 plaining invalid, looked, forwards with 
 : delight to the grespect of thus visiting 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. .59 
 
 every port in the Mediterranean. No- 
 thing was ahsent from this sanguine 
 picture of hope, but his friend Horace; 
 and Avithout liim, the gay colouring sunk 
 at once into the flat and insipid same- 
 ness oF a stiip's cabin, or was charged 
 M'ith the desponding tints of never be- 
 holding him again. His father, wdio was 
 with him, soon discovered his wishes ; 
 and immediately applied to Mr. Freeman 
 for his good offices with Mr. Hardcastle, 
 assuring him, that neither the young 
 gentleman's time nor interest should be 
 lost by a compliance with his request. 
 This proposal was the subject of Mr. 
 Freeman's letter to Horace's father; and 
 the plan recommended, was not only 
 favourable to Horace's future views, but 
 also advantageous to his further improve- 
 ment. The difficnlties which had sus- 
 pended Mr. Hardcastle's decision, will be 
 easily imagined : his honour silenced the 
 fond remonstrances of his heart ; and he 
 d6 
 
6.0 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 determined on a separation, which would 
 at once exclude his son from all personaV 
 intercourse with Miss Cowley for a lon- 
 ger time than he conceived her father 
 would permit her to remain unmarried. 
 
 He lost no time in placing before his 
 son his uncle's proposal, and his own en- 
 tire concurrence in the plan, " In this 
 sacrifice of my own comforts for your 
 advantage," added the father, " I shall, 
 I must be amply indemnified by seeing 
 you escape from the danger which me- 
 naces you under my roof. In the duties 
 o^ friendship, you may, my son, safely 
 indulge the sensibility of a warm and 
 affectionate nature ; but in the presence 
 of a beautiful girl, endeared to you by 
 the sweet ties of infant sportiveness and 
 familiar approach, you have forgotten, 
 Horace, that passion and imagination 
 are the usual rocks on which the honour 
 and security of a young man are ship- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. Gl 
 
 wrecked. 1 know that your principles 
 are sound ; I also knoNV', that in the pre- 
 sent delusion of your .senses, there is no 
 mixture of a sordid consideration in re- 
 gard to Miss Cowley's wealth. No, Ho- 
 race, you are too generous for such views, 
 and she is too attractive to need them. 
 But tell me, with what arguments would 
 you confute the charge so strongly to be 
 inferred from tiie circumstances in which 
 we are placed relatively to this young 
 lady, by her grand-mother's will? I 
 know Mr. Cowley, and I believe him to 
 be a liberal-minded man; but would 
 Horace Hardcastle fmd in an extorted 
 consent to his union with his daughter, 
 the approbation needful for his honour ? 
 Recollect, that a gift not freely bestowed, 
 is, and must be, oppressive to a noble 
 mind; and the tenderness and weakness 
 of a parent, who yields to the importu- 
 nities of a fond, love-sick girl, furnish 
 no excuse for the man who has fradu- 
 
6<i 
 
 lently counteracted her parent's views and 
 expectations, by gaining an empire over 
 her affections. Be more just to yourself, 
 my son. You want not wealth to ele- 
 vate you, nor firmness to conquer your 
 present feelings. Be not deceived by the 
 enthusiasm which now governs you. 
 The good report of your fellow-creatures 
 is of more importance to your happiness 
 than you believe ; and from the censure 
 M'hich will involve you and myself of 
 having made a property of this lovely 
 girl, and cheated her unsuspecting and 
 generous father, there will be no appeal 
 even to the candid. "I will go," an- 
 swered Horace, his face crimsoned with 
 blushes, ** I will go to the farthest part 
 of the globe, to spare you from such ca- 
 lumny. But I must love Rachel Cowley, 
 or cease to live. Suffer me to depart 
 with this shield to guard my youth, 
 with this invigorating hope, that I may 
 one day convince her father that I am 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 63 
 
 worthy of her, if not o^ Ids fortune. Let 
 him, if it please him, build hospitals 
 with his money: I shall not want it!" 
 ** Trusting to the effects of time and ab- 
 sence," answered Mr. Hardcastle, '^ I 
 will finish this conversation, by my po- 
 sitive prohibition of your corresponding 
 with Miss Cowley, eitlier directly or in- 
 directly, during your absence. I wish 
 you to receive this command, as qualified 
 .by parental love. She is young, my 
 dear Horace, as well as yourself; trust 
 to your father; you may both change 
 your present sentiments. Leave her to 
 the only test of a permanent aifection— 
 more acquaintance with the world, and 
 more knowledge of herself. Her situa- 
 tion and sphere in life will soon be very 
 vilifierent from what they are at present. 
 The society and the pleasures of the 
 world will solicit her attention, and al* 
 though I do not believe she will ever 
 forget her early friends, time and absence 
 
64 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 nmy, and will weaken the prese;it im- 
 pressions of her mind. Trust also some- 
 thing to my experience; even^OM, my dear 
 Horace, may forget to a certain degree, 
 this amiable young woman. You will be 
 engaged in pursuits, which may, without 
 any miracle, direct your thoughts from 
 present objects ; and you may live to 
 feel, that Mr. Cowley's daughter is not 
 necessary to your happiness." Poor 
 Horace's agitations were not concealed. 
 ** Before we part," added the tender fa- 
 ther, ** let me assure you, that were this 
 young creature any but what she is^ I 
 would select her from amidst thousands 
 as a wife for my son. Let this assertion 
 content you, and convince you of the 
 importance I alhx to Xkitjirm opposition 
 I make to your affection. Be then a 
 Hardcastle ; and submit your passions 
 to that controul which will secure to you 
 the blessings of a Hardcastle.'' 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 65 
 
 A short interval was allotted for the 
 young man's preparations in order to his 
 joining Lord William. Miss Cowley's 
 firmness not only supported this hour, 
 but also her friend Lucy's more tender 
 spirits. She spoke of Horace's departure 
 M'ith calmness, and observed from time 
 to time, that he could not better fill up 
 a year or too than by travelling. On 
 the morning he left the parental roof, 
 she further manifested her resolution and 
 spirit. Poor Horace rose to obey the 
 third or fourth summons which had an- 
 nounced that ^' all was ready." ^' We 
 part," said she, offering him her glowing 
 cheek, ** as brother and sister — such be 
 our adieux. But when next wc meet, 
 Horace, this hand shall testify the faith 
 and truth of Rachel Cowley. Thus I 
 plight it !" She raised her eyes to hea- 
 ven, grasped his hand a moment, and 
 then darted from the room, leaving Mr. 
 
66 
 
 Hardcastle to his surprise, and to com- 
 fort his son. 
 
 A few weeks after Horace had quitted 
 England, Miss Cowley's tranquillity was 
 again interrupted. She had sent her 
 father, with some specimens of her own 
 talents in drawing, her picture at full 
 length; this was the w^ork of the first 
 artist in London, and was acknowledged 
 to be not only a capital picture, but also 
 a striking resemblance of her by those 
 friends who had seen it. IVIr. Cowley, 
 on receiving it, appears to have given 
 indulgence to all the feelings of nature, 
 in beholding the portrait of a child so 
 dear to him, an object of delight and 
 admiration to his friends. He praises the 
 design, the attitude; in a word, the skill 
 of the painter in the highest terms. 
 *' But," adds he, *' if such be thy exter- 
 nal endowments, he has had a subject for 
 his labours worthy of them." He cou- 
 
THE VICTIM OP VILLANY. 6'7 
 
 tinues in this stile of gaiety to inform 
 her, that, notwithstanding *' the hazel 
 eyes," which are said to be his gift, he 
 thinks she so much resembles her mother, 
 that he had placed her picture opposite 
 to her mothers portrait; and that he 
 passes from one to the otiier, with sensa.- 
 tations at once pleasurable and painful. 
 *' Your arriv^al, in the mean time," con- 
 tinues he, *Mias been celebrated by a 
 grand dinner, to which my friends re- 
 sorted in crowds. Curiosity and admira- 
 tion at length gave place to a contest 
 between the ^ dove-like blue eyes,' and 
 the * saucy hazel ones.' Your cham- 
 pions were Captain Vernon and your 
 old friend Oliver Flint, whom you will 
 remember as your favourite, although 
 you threw your v/ax doll at his head, 
 because he said it was prettier than Ma- 
 rian. As to your other valorous knight, 
 I have only to recommend to you, when 
 you next see him with his cargo of 
 
68- LADY MACLAIRJf, 
 
 sweetmeats, to caution him to be more 
 moderate in his zeal for your glory; for 
 had he not been arrack-proof as com- 
 pletely as he is salt-water proof, he had 
 been a dead man; for by maintaining 
 your cause he has had a fever, which 
 frightened his poor wife into a sick bed." 
 This letter finishes by mentioning the 
 arrival of two strangers in Jamaica; 
 namely, a gentleman of the name of 
 Flamall, with his nephew, Mr. Philip 
 Flint, the posthumous brother of Mr. 
 Oliver Flint, the gentleman already men- 
 tioned in his letter. " My worthy old 
 friend," continues Mr. Cowley, ** has 
 drooped ever since the. loss of liis sons. 
 I do not wonder that this has been the 
 case. They had been his support under 
 the severe trials of losing a good wife, 
 and several other children. They ha4 
 attained to an age in which he might, 
 and had reasonably hoped to find in 
 them a support and comfort to his grave. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 69 
 
 In one week an epidemic fever rendered 
 him childless. Poor Oliver was for a time 
 overwhelmed by this dreadful blow; but 
 the constitution of his mind and body 
 have saved him. He turned his thoughts 
 to remedy his grief, not to repinings for 
 an affliction sent him, as he said, * for 
 his good;* and he has found one in this 
 young brother, whom he never knew till 
 lately. This child was the fruit of his 
 father's second marriage, who died at an 
 advanced age, leaving his young widow 
 pregnant. The young man's name is 
 Philip, and liis age nearly that of poor 
 Oliver's eldest son, who was also christ- 
 ened Philip. On this slight conformity 
 the good old man erected his hopes of 
 supplying to himself an heir and a conso- 
 lation. The appearance of this young 
 man, who is accompanied by his ma- 
 ternal uncle Mr. Flam all, has renovated 
 poor Oliver. He is, indeed, a most pro- 
 mising and handsome young man, and 
 
70 LADY WaCLAIRN, 
 
 my friend already fancies he resembles 
 ^lis son: no one contests this point with 
 him; nor is there any one who does not 
 think the young man worthy of his 
 brother's protection. He is well educated, 
 and his manners are pleasing and polite, 
 though rather too reserved and circum- 
 spect for some amongst us. These stran- 
 gers have made a rake of me for som^ 
 time; but I have refused to dine with 
 the heir apparent, in order to write to 
 you more at my leisure. Since your 
 picture has graced my saloon, your old 
 friend Oliver can talk of nothing but 
 getting a wife for his idol; and this 
 morning Mr. Flamall explicitly began a 
 negotiation for my girl, stating his 
 nephew's great expectations from his 
 sister, an old maiden lady, whose name 
 is Lucretia Flint. This, with Mr. Flint's 
 fortune, is a bait, but not one for your 
 father, my child. I have not forgotten 
 your dear mother : to her undivided af- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 71 
 
 fection, not her money, was I indebted 
 for my happiness ; and, instead of years 
 passed in contention and wretchedness, 
 I had the satisfaction of knowing; tliat 
 my wife preferred her husband to his 
 rival, although that rival was her mother, 
 I do not believe you have been instruct- 
 ed to despise a man, simply because he 
 stands well in your father's opinion ; nor 
 will that father, my dear child, bargain 
 away your liappiness, in order to add 
 acre to acre. I told Mr. Flamall, with 
 more jocularity than seriousness, that 
 I meant to see my girl before I gave her 
 away, and to know the value of my 
 merchandise before I sold it. Be not, 
 however, surprised should you see your 
 old friend Mr. Flint; for, coward as he 
 is, I verily beheve lie would cross the 
 Atlantic in a boat to plead with you for 
 his darling Philip." 
 
 Kind as this letter was, it alarmed 
 
7'^ LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 JVIiss Cowley. She once more renewed 
 her entreaties on the subject of her father's 
 leaving Jamaica; and in the most un- 
 equivocal terms declared her repugnance 
 to any matrimonial overtures. " Let me 
 conjure you, my dear Sir," urged the ap- 
 prehensive pleader, " to return to Eng* 
 land, and to renew with me those en- 
 dearing ties of an undivided duty and 
 the purest gratitude. I seek to emulate 
 my mother, but it shall be in first shew- 
 ing that I am your child, and not as a 
 wife. Oh, let me for a time be your own 
 Rachel Cowley !" 
 
 The father's reply to this appeal to his 
 heart restored Miss Cowley to her usual 
 cheerfulness. He good-humouredly ral- 
 lies her on the needless rhetoric she em- 
 ployed to restrain the ardoui^s of a lover, 
 apparently as little disposed to be 
 shackled as her herself. " From the 
 little I have seen of this young philoso- 
 
T^^E VICTIM OF VILtANY. 73 
 
 plier," adds Mr. Cowley, ^^ I believe he 
 left his heart behind hiin ; for our nota- 
 ble mothers, ^vho are nibbling at the 
 prize, can make nothing of him, and the 
 girls already call him the stoic. I M^as 
 much amused the other day by Captain 
 Vernon's and Mr. Flamall's debate, iii 
 v.'hich you were the subject of conten- 
 tion. The uncle insisted that his nephew- 
 had been engaged in taking a drawing 
 from your picture whilst I was at Oliver's 
 with a gay party of ladies and gentlemen, 
 and from which young Philip had con- 
 trived to absent himself for a long time. 
 Vernon doubted of this employment of 
 the youngster's time ; ' but ;be this as it 
 may,' added he, with his usual blunt- 
 ness, ' I tell you that young Flint will 
 never do for a suitor for Miss Cowley, 
 whatever he may for her picture ; she 
 would laugh at him.' Mr. Flamall was 
 not much pleased by this frankness, and 
 he coldly replied, that he presumed 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 Miss Cowley had not made a confession 
 of her faith to Captain Vernon. * There 
 is no need she should,' answered he; 
 'her spirit and sense speak for themselves : 
 and whilst all the world acknowledge 
 her beauty, she shews them that she will 
 not easily be won.' I shall spare my 
 pen the labour of writing the remainder 
 of his rhapsodies ; but he finished by 
 telling Flamall that he could recommend 
 a wife to his nephew, who would exactly 
 jsuit him; and that was Miss Lucy Hard- 
 castk. His description of the young 
 lady satisfied Flamall that the honest 
 captain did not think his nephew un- 
 deserving of a good wife, though disqua- 
 lified to manage a saucy one, I have, 
 however, reason to believe I shall hear no 
 more of Mr. Philip Flint's passion for 
 Miss Rachel Cowley ; therefore she may 
 take one feather from vanity's plume.'* 
 
 Mr. Cowley finishes this letter by mea- 
 
THE Victim of villany. 75 
 
 tioning the steps he had taken prepara- 
 tory to quitting the island; and, with 
 much satisfaction, informs his daughter 
 that he lias retained Mr. Flamall as his 
 agent: he enlarges on this gentleman's 
 talents and capacity for business, and 
 concludes with the highest eulogiurn on 
 his manners and agreeable qualities. 
 
 It appears that the honourable veteran 
 ■in the service of Neptune and Bacchus, 
 delivered, as was usual, this packet and 
 his sweetmeats, in person, at Heathcof, 
 where he passed a few days with a young- 
 creature, who, from her birth, had shared 
 in his warm heart an affection which he 
 had carried to idolatry for her mother. 
 
 His account of his patron, Mr, Cow«^ 
 ley, by no means tallied with the apparent 
 ease and gaiety contained in the letters 
 he brought ; and Mr. Hardcastle wa$ 
 told that Mr. Cowley had been seized 
 
/O LADY 
 
 with a fit whilst at Mr. Flint's tahle, 
 which dreadfully alarmed all present : 
 happily a medical, gentleman was one of 
 the guests, and immediate relief was 
 given. '^ It has shaken him," added the 
 captain ; " but we hope he will rally 
 again. I saw him the day I embarked ; 
 he made me promise not to say a word 
 of this business to you ; but I did not 
 like his looks, and I thought he walked 
 but poorly : God grant I may see him in 
 my next trip ! It should be the last 
 labour of the Charlotte. She was launched 
 to carry him and his angel wife to 
 Jamaica ; and if she swims safely till he 
 is with his daugher, she will have been a 
 lucky vessel to me.^' Repassed his hand 
 over his eyes, and whistled away an emo- 
 tion that he could not otherwise con- 
 quer. 
 
 The captain's apprehensions were but 
 too well founded. Mr. Cowley lived not 
 
THE VICTi:»I OF VILLANY. 77 
 
 to reach Eiioluncl. A second and third 
 attack of the palsy proved fatal; and 
 poor Vernon found at his return many 
 niourners to sympathize with him in a 
 sorrow leo^itimatelv founded on his know- 
 ledge of the man, and on gratitude to 
 his benefactor. We will pass over in 
 silence the effects which this melancholy 
 intelligence produced at Heathcot-Farm. 
 Miss Cowley was roused from the deep- 
 est dejection of spirits by the events 
 which succeeded to the first shock. Mr. 
 Steadman summoned her and Mr. Hard- 
 castle to London ; and with precautions, 
 which he judged necessary, placed be- 
 fore the orphan a copy of her late father's 
 will, which, with all its requisite docu- 
 ments, had been formerly sent to him by 
 the executor, Mr. Flamall. 
 
 The contents were, indeed, calculated 
 to astonish and afflict his daughter. She 
 was named as the successor to his fortune 
 E 3 
 
78 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 in the usual terms. His property stood 
 ausMxrable, lio\rever, for the provision of 
 his two natural children and their mother. 
 These children were boys, the eldest not 
 yet ten years old. To each was be- 
 queathed five thousand pounds; to the 
 mother three hundred pounds per annum. 
 To the survivor of the boys this property 
 devolved, unless the mother lived till the 
 children had both reached twenty-one, 
 in which case her annuity was to be di- 
 vided between them. To Mrs. Allen two 
 thousand pounds ; bequests to some do- 
 mestics, and hundred-pounds rings to 
 several friends; amongst these Counsellor 
 Steadman, Mr. Hardcastle, and Mr. Oli- 
 ver Flint were named. Mr. Flamall, with 
 a thousand pounds legacy, was named as 
 the guardian of his two sons, and ap- 
 pointed agent for the trust of superin- 
 tending his concerns in Jamaica. An in- 
 come of five hundred pounds per annum 
 was annexed to this trust ; and provisioji 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 79' 
 
 was made for Mr. Flamall's residence at 
 ■whichever of the plantations he chose 
 for his abode. The important clause 
 next follows, and in these words nearly . 
 *' Having had the most unequivocal 
 proofs of the integrity of those trustees 
 named by Mrs. Dawson, for the security 
 of her property in favour of Rachel Cow- 
 ley, he still leaves to their wisdom the 
 entire management of the trust in their 
 hands; but it behoved him to shew to 
 the world, and to his daughter, that he 
 had neither relinquished his rights as a 
 parent, nor been unmindful of the duties 
 annexed to the name of a father ; and, not 
 doubting his child's ready obedience to 
 his commands, he had, with the concur- 
 rence of the parties most nearly concerned, 
 chosenherahusband in the person of Philip 
 Flint, &c." On the celebration of this mar- 
 riage Mr. Fiamall's jurisdiction termi- 
 nated, as far as it related to Miss Cow- 
 ley. She was immediately to enter int« 
 E 4 
 
80 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 the full and unconditional enjoyni<5nt of 
 her fortune when she became Mr. Philip 
 Flint's wife. 
 
 The penalty of a refusal to comply 
 with the terms thus briefly specified, was 
 a minority, which reached to her twenty- 
 fifth year ; and in case she married any 
 other man, save the aforesaid Philip Flint, 
 without the consent of Mr. Flamall, the 
 whole of the Jamaica property was tied 
 up for her children's benefit ; and in case 
 of no issue, devolved to his t\vo sons. 
 He further enjoins his daughter's obe- 
 dience to this his representatwe, even as 
 it regards her place of residence : stipu- 
 lating, however, that he has conditioned 
 for her remaining in England, not only 
 while she bears the name of Cowley, but 
 also under that of Mrs. Flint, having re- 
 ceived the most satisfactory assurances 
 that Philip Flint will not live in Jamaica* 
 In a word, Mr. Cowley's will firmly makes 
 Mr. Flamall the sovereign arbiter of 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 81 
 
 Miss Cowley's fate till slie becomes bis 
 niece; and llie barsb and dictatorial lan- 
 guage of tbe law was exbausted to sanc- 
 tion and conrirm tbis excess of parental 
 authority. 
 
 Miss Cowky, witb indignation, pro- 
 nounced tbe will a forgery ; and sbe j)ro- 
 duced as evidence for tliis opinion ber 
 fatbtr's cbaracter, bis unlimited affection 
 for ber, bis confidence in Mr. Hardcastle, 
 and his letters, in which Philip Flint bad 
 been named. Her friends admitted ber 
 reasoning, ^ but tbe will was legally exe- 
 cuted and witnessed by Oliver Flint, Mr. 
 Cowley's valet de chamhre, and two of 
 the most respectable gentlemen in tiie 
 island. Juba, the faithful Juba, had car- 
 ried Rachel Cowley in his arms. He 
 had long been a free man, and be bad 
 written the first letter to England of bis 
 beloved master's death; in v/bicb be 
 dwelt with comfort on the calmness and 
 e5 
 
82 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 clearness of the deceased man's faculties 
 till the last moment. She persisted in 
 her opinion, and with great firmness said, 
 'she would seek redress in a court of 
 Chancery, ordering the counsellor to 
 enter a caveat to the will immediately. 
 The dignity which she assumed, the 
 acuteness of her observations, and the 
 absence of those feais which the gentle- 
 men were preparetl to expect^ gave them 
 at once to understand that the client was 
 not a minor in good sense. The coun- 
 lellor was struck with a character so su- 
 perior to what he expected in a girl not 
 much more than eighteen ; and he told 
 her candidly, that his opinion and Mr. 
 liardcastle's entirely agreed with her 
 own. ''I have gained," continued he, 
 ** some information respecting this Fla- 
 mall. He was, I find, one of those men 
 who in the practice of the law are its dis- 
 j|race ; he is expert in all the tricks and 
 
THE rrCTIM OF VILLANY. 83 
 
 chicaner}' of bis tribe; and your proper- 
 ty is too valuable a trust to be wrested 
 from him without a struggle on his part. 
 The means of justice are slow, and we 
 must contrive to counteract his villany, 
 not to dispute his right to be a villain. 
 Have patience, my dear iMiss Cowley, I 
 have more than once caught a rascal in 
 his own toils. A false will cannot easily 
 be produced without confederates ; some- 
 thing may transpire, for rogues are rare- 
 ly faithful to each other. Be satisfied 
 that you are at liberty to refuse the hus- 
 band he has so carefully provided for 
 you. You want nothing from Jamarca, 
 and in a few vears vou will be mistres's 
 of your father's fortune, and in a situa- 
 tion to support your brothers in their 
 difficulties with a man certainly disqua- 
 hfied for their guardian. We will know 
 more of him, and appear his dupes for a* 
 season; he will only rob you with the 
 E 6 
 
84 
 
 more avidity from finding he is sus- 
 pected. " 
 
 Miss Cowley assented to this advice, 
 and determined to be governed by her 
 zealous friend ; secretly hoping, that 
 the restrictions of her father's will, to 
 which she appeared disposed to submit, 
 would at least secure her from the solici- 
 tations of lovers ; and thus silence Mr. 
 Hardcastle's scruples in regard to his 
 son. 
 
 Before she left Mr. Steadman, she saw 
 her formal rejection of Mr. Philip Flint 
 dispatched to her new guardian. Coun- 
 sellor Steadman wrote this letter, and 
 Miss Cowley's attestation of its being 
 dictated by her, satisfied her, that she 
 had crushed the hopes of the insolent 
 pretender to her hand. Her natural 
 cheerfulness returned, and Lucy found 
 her friend the better for the little jour- 
 
THE VlCXni OF VILLANY. 85 
 
 ney. But this season of tranquillity 
 lasted not many months ; a letter from 
 ^Ir. Flaniall, which it is necessary to 
 transcrihe here, will assign the cause of 
 new anxieties at Heath cot- Farm. Mr. 
 Flamall, who seemed to consider Mr. 
 Steadman as the only friend of Miss 
 Cowley, and, as a professional man, the 
 proper medium through which his autho- 
 rity was to he announced to the heiress, 
 thus writes to him : 
 
 '* Bound as I am hy the duties of my 
 appointed trust, and prompted by my 
 veneration and gratitude to fulfd in every 
 point Mr. Cowley's intentions, as these 
 related to his daughter, I think it pro- 
 per to remove Miss Cowley from her 
 present residence. From the period of 
 !Mrs. Hardcastle's death, her father had 
 this intention ; and I have frequently 
 heard him regret, that his delay, and her 
 reluctance to visit Jamaica, had post- 
 
B6 LADY MACLAIRNy 
 
 poned a resolution he thought inclispett- 
 siblj incumbent on him to execute. In 
 his last iUness he requested me to make 
 it my first concern to place bis daughter 
 with a lady qualified to protect and guide 
 her. I have, in consequence, written to 
 my sister, Lady Maclairn, on this subject, 
 and you will prepare my ward fi^r her 
 removal to Tarefield, the place of my 
 sister's residence. I am not discouraged 
 hy Miss Cowley's refusal of my nephew. 
 She does not know Philip Flint, who- 
 will, I am confident, convince her, and 
 her friends, that her father was not les8 
 attentive to her happiness than to her 
 fortune, in selecting him as her protector 
 for fife. More on this subject does not 
 become me to say, less would be injus- 
 tice to anmn whose merits are acknow- 
 ledged wherever he is known. I will not, 
 however, pursue this smhject furthei? at 
 present, than by observing, that Miss 
 Cowley may be led by her knowledge 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT. %7 
 
 of Air. Philip Flint's connections in Eng- 
 land, to consider more favourably of her 
 good father's wishes. In the mean tim^ 
 my nephew has cheerfnlly acceded to 
 mine ; and flatters himself, that by post- 
 poning his voyage to England for some 
 months, he is not only gratifying Miss 
 Cowley's delicacy in this hour of filial 
 sorrow, but also offering her an homage 
 which will not be unacceptable to her, 
 as it v/ill be of use to her interest ; Mr. 
 Cowley's large concerns requiring an in- 
 spection, and an arrangement which, in 
 the fii'st pressure of business, is more 
 than I am equal to. The retirement iu 
 which Sir Murdock Maclairn's family 
 lives, will not, in the present state of 
 af^Pairs, be irksome to my ward ; the so- 
 ciety of an accomplished woman will, I 
 hope, compensate her for the temporary 
 suspension of more unconfined amuse- 
 ments. Taking it for granted, that you 
 will still hold the trust committed to you 
 
88 
 
 by Mrs. Dawson's will, I shall annually 
 remit to Sir Murdock Maclairn the same 
 sum which Mr. Cowley assigned for his 
 daughter's maintenance with Mr. Hard- 
 castle, from the age of infancy. Being 
 willing to shcM^ my respect for Miss Cow- 
 ley's wish, as this relates to Mrs. Allen's 
 continuance in her service, I have pre- 
 pared Lady Maclairn to receive what she 
 might otherwise judge an useless appen- 
 dage in a house regulated as Tarefield- 
 liall is." Mr. Flamall concludes hy in- 
 forming his correspondent, that Miss 
 Cowley's fortune is very ample ; that he 
 has to encounter the obstinacy of the 
 boys' mother, who will not be parted 
 from the children, nor suffer them to 
 remain in their father's house. Mr. Phi- 
 lip Flint had, however, compromised 
 matters ; and the mother and children 
 were placed by him in the family of a 
 Mr. Dalrymple, a Scotchman, whom he 
 had known at the university, in Edin- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 89 
 
 burgh, and who kept a school in Kings- 
 ton, with reputation. The boys were 
 handsome, promising children ; and he 
 had no fears for them, but such as arose 
 from the ignorance and excessive fond- 
 ness of their mother, whom he always 
 thought unworthy of the place she had 
 held in Mr. Cowley's heart. It was, how- 
 ever, his intention to send the children 
 to England for education, with his ne- 
 phew, if he could prevail on the mother 
 to consult their real good. Statements 
 of effects in a general way, and details 
 of his conduct, as regulated by the dy- 
 ing words of Mr. Cov/ley, in regard to 
 the negroes on the plantations, to whom 
 he had been a father, finish Mr. Flamall's 
 letter. 
 
 Mr. Hardcastle, judging of the effects 
 of this letter on Miss Cowley, from the 
 sorrow with which it filled his anxious 
 bosom, and justly apprehending the dan- 
 
9Q LADY MAC LA I RX, 
 
 ger which might result from his " child's'' 
 removal to a family devoted to Mr. Fla- 
 mall's views, strenuously concurred with 
 Mr. Steadman, in advising Miss Cowley 
 to take such steps as would at least se- 
 cure her person fram Mr. Flamall's con- 
 troul. But she was not to be moved ia 
 her resolution of complying with his 
 orders. ** The future happiness of my 
 life," said she, *' depends on my eompli- 
 nnce with this act of usurped authority. 
 He will find," added slie, with an air of 
 triumph, "that in thehands of Providence 
 the vilest instrument is made subservient 
 to the purposes of mercy. I must quit 
 Mr. Hardcastle s house ; I have for some 
 tim.e 'wished to do|so. Yes, I have wished it. 
 I will convince that world which Mr. Hard- 
 castle so much fears, that Rachel Cowley 
 has not been influenced by those who 
 have been her protectors, to prefer Ho- 
 race Hardcastle for her future guardian. 
 I will shew my independence, and main- 
 tain my claims to a choice which virtue 
 
THE VICTI3I OF.VILLAXY. Qt 
 
 sanctions. It is of no moment where I 
 pass this term of my banishment from 
 all whom I love," continued she, melt- 
 ing into tears. '' These people will soon 
 discover, that I am not a girl to be tram- 
 pled on, and their own advantage will 
 secure to me civility. When I am five- 
 and-twenty years of age, I presume the 
 world, as wt\\ as the laws of my country, 
 will deem me a free agent ; and I should 
 he the first to laugh at an attachment 
 that could not stand my trial of its per- 
 manency. It b possible, that m the first 
 instance Mr. liardcastle's scruples will 
 yield to his sorrow for my absence, and 
 my own firmness, to some censures of 
 his wisdom and circumspection ; but we 
 shall both find consolation in those prin- 
 ciples which require the sacrifice of pre- 
 sent security and happiness, to a more 
 lasting and greater advantage." Mr. 
 Plard castle, unequal to the conflict, re- 
 tired, not daring to trust his integrity 
 with so irresistible a pleader. 
 
92 LADV MAC LA I RN, 
 
 Soon after, the following letter was 
 in his hands; its contents will evince to 
 the reader, the solicitude of Miss Cowley's 
 friends at once to ascertain the safety 
 of her removal from them. 
 
 *' To Counsellor Steadman. 
 
 " Bishops-Auckland, Durham* 
 *' MY DEAR FRIEND, 
 
 '* My short residence in this part of 
 the world, will unavoidably subject the 
 intelligence you require to errors, not- 
 withstanding my zeal and diligence. 
 The truth is, that, as I have only the 
 voice of the parish of Tarefield and its 
 environs for my authorities, I am forced 
 to place before you the history of a family 
 at once peculiarly marked as the object 
 of a fond partiality, and of inveterate 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 9 J 
 
 hatred. I leave to you to sift and resift 
 tlie documents thus ohtained : for my 
 history includes a number of years and 
 facts which are still the topics of conver- 
 sation in this neighbourhood. 
 
 *' Flamall was, as you have heard, for 
 some years a practitioner in the law; and 
 succeeded his father intlie business of an 
 attorney, with the credit which that father 
 left him, who was a,n honest and an able 
 man. His sister, now Lady Maclairn, was 
 left to his direction, and, to the surprise of 
 old Flamall's connections, to her bro- 
 ther's generosity. She was young and 
 remarkably handsome, had been carefully 
 and liberally educated, and was a virtu- 
 ous and elegant young woman ; but from 
 some proofs of her brother's intentions, 
 of making her subservient to his ambi- 
 tion or vices, she sheltered her own in- 
 nocence by accepting the hand of old 
 j\Ir. Flint, then in his seventieth year; 
 
S4 LADY MACLAIR^, 
 
 and in the full blaze of beauty, not being 
 more than four or five and twenty, she 
 appeared as a bride at Tarefield-hall. 
 Mr. Flint at this period had four chil- 
 dren. Oliver, his eldest son, was settled 
 in Jamaica, had married there, and was 
 the father of a family. Lucretia, the 
 present despot at the hall, was single ; 
 but something older than the bride. 
 Percival Flint, the second son, had just 
 finished his academical studies, and had 
 quitted Oxford. Mary Fhnt, the young- 
 est of the family, was then about seven- 
 teen, and in one word, a paragon of per^ 
 fectmi, for such my authorities proclaim 
 her. Domestic feuds and discontents 
 still kept their ground, in spite of th« 
 young mother-in-law ; who, it appears, 
 was little calculated to maintain even her 
 own rights ; she sunk into a nurse to 
 her husband. Percival Flint left his 
 father's house secretly, and for some 
 yf^aiSj wliilst serving his coiuitry as an 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 95 
 
 efticer ill the marines, was supposed by 
 the neighbourhood to have fallen a vic- 
 tim to misery. Mr. Flamall had an 
 active part in all the transactions at 
 this period. He was useful to the infirm 
 father of the family, in managing his 
 business; and his ill treatment of his 
 own sister, gave him favour with Miss 
 Lucretia Flint. Love now engaged in 
 the struggle for power. A new curate, 
 of the name of Howard, appeared at 
 Tarefield. ]\Iiss Lucretia made love to 
 him ; and he made love to the beautiful 
 Mary Flint. Here again I could fill 
 volumes with the praises and blessings 
 still given to this matchless pair ! After 
 many trials, and the utmost cruelty from 
 the jealous sister, the lovers married. 
 Mr. Flint's death is the next event. He 
 left a will, which utterly excluded Per- 
 cival Flint and Mrs. Howard, his darling 
 child, from any portion of his property 
 beyond a shilling. The Jamaica e.otate 
 
96 LADY MAClAlllN, 
 
 became his eldest son's, and Miss Lucre- 
 tia became the mistress of Tarefield-hallj 
 with a large sum in money, some say, 
 not less than thirty thousand pounds. 
 The young widow had her provision of 
 four hundred pounds per annum, for her 
 life, on the Tarefield estate, and her name 
 was not even in the will but in order to 
 ascertain this claim. A new wonder suc- 
 ceeded to this. In a short time after the 
 funeral, Mrs. Flint declared herself preg- 
 nant; and to the astonishment of every 
 one, Miss Flint received the intelligence 
 with joy, and observed, it was an event 
 for which Mr. Flint had prepared her. 
 She was happy ; for it would now appear, 
 that her father had chosen her for the 
 stewardship of that fortune destined to 
 be shared with a child who had not 
 offended him. The odious title of mo- 
 ther-in-law was forgotten, and she called 
 Mrs. Flint her friend and sister : by 
 this latter appellation they still call each 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 97 
 
 other. Anxious for tlie preservation of 
 the infant, Miss Flint removed her sister, 
 whose health was in a very precarious 
 state, to London^ There PhiHp Fhnt 
 was born ; I need not a(Ul, that this post- 
 liunious child is the young man wlio 
 pretends to Miss Cowley's hand. I have 
 suppressed the affecting stories of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Howard's difiiculties, and their 
 untimely death. They left a daughter, 
 who is the idoi of her parents' partia'l 
 friends : till lately, she has lived with a 
 wealthy farmer, where also boards her 
 uncle Percival. She is now, I am told, 
 noticed at the hall, and I believe she is 
 under ]Miss Lucretia's protection. But to 
 proceed. 
 
 '* Soon after the birth of Philip, Mrs, 
 Flint chose a second husband, and mar- 
 ried Sir Murdock ]\Iaclairn, with whom 
 she became acquainted during her resi- 
 dence in or near London. The baronet 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 LADY MACLAIilN, 
 
 was poor, and Mr. Flamall was for a time 
 averse to this union ; and for the reasons 
 my Irishman assigns, namely, * that 
 Flamall knew of no standard hy which 
 to appreciate honour and intrepidity.' 
 
 Observe here, that the Duke of 
 
 gave me this observation, who formerly 
 knew the baronet. Miss Flint, whose 
 best actions are viewed only in one di- 
 rection by the circle of her irritated 
 judges, was however useful to the poor 
 widow Flint on this occasion. The 
 union was effected by her mediation, 
 without an open rupture with the domi- 
 neering brother. * But she took care 
 of herself, for she wished to attach Mr. 
 Flamall, and conditioned for Sir Mur- 
 dock and his lady, hving with her at 
 Tarefield, by which means the lover had 
 a pretence for his visits.' I shall pass 
 over this lady's supposed frailty, and the 
 motives assigned for her not marrying 
 the man whom she favoured. These are 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. £)9 
 
 contained in the following hints : ''They 
 knexo one another too well for that folly ^ 
 4"c.' I have even continued to suppress 
 tlie current report of the hall being 
 haunted by the unquiet spirit of old 
 Mr. Flint, * who knows the will pro- 
 duced, was never made by him.' Com- 
 passion for Lady Maclairn has not been 
 worn out. Her conduct to her unfortu- 
 nate husband during many years infir- 
 mity of mind, nearly approaching to 
 insanit-Vjikas obliterated tlie remembrance 
 of 'he^ tieglcct of Mr. and Mrs. Howard, 
 and every one concurs in believing, that, 
 to her love and unremitting tenderness, 
 th« poor barc^iiet stands indebted for his 
 prest'^t^^'atiA'erid'ment in his health and 
 fc^HJti^tieSi She ha'^^ne son by her second 
 marliage. It i^ 'enough that I say this 
 young man is the reigning favourite here; 
 for * Malcolm Maclairn is in no favour 
 with Miss Flint, or his uncle Flamall. I 
 suspect he has more of his father's blood 
 F 2 
 
100 LADY MACLAIRJf, 
 
 in his views than suits his dependant for- 
 tune ; for he has hcen from his childhood 
 constantly attached to Perciv^al FHnt, 
 and Miss Howard, the orphan child of 
 Mary Flint, who is the admiration of 
 the parish, aixl the cherished object of 
 compassion. 
 
 " It is no unpleasing nor unprofitable 
 reflection, my good friend, to trace in 
 my gleanings relative to this family, the 
 pure and genuine love of justice with 
 ^vhich the heart of man is endawed by 
 his gracious Maker. Neither the wealth 
 nor station of Miss Flint have been able to 
 screen her from the odium of tho^e about 
 her. Percival Flint has morehomd/g^^aid 
 him than if lord of the manor^how^j 
 and with the stipend annexed to an in- 
 valid captain of marines, a wooden leg, 
 and his niece Howard in his hand, con- 
 fers an honour on every cottage he enters. 
 The farmer, at whose house they live. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA NY. 101 
 
 has acquired an influence and authority 
 in tlie parish heyond what his opulence 
 would give him ; ' for every thing has 
 prospered with Mi\ Wilson from the 
 liour he sheltered Mr. and Mis. Howard/ 
 Such is the belief here. 
 
 ** To conclude. It appears that Mr. 
 Philip Flint has been carefully educated, 
 and is a young man of spirit. The 
 usual comments on him finish with, 
 * Aye he is too good for those to whom 
 he belongs! they could not spoil him; 
 but he will never be ^vorthy to carry his 
 brother Malcolm's shoes.' You will 
 translate these expressions to this young- 
 man's advantage, for they bespeak his 
 worth. ' - 
 
 ** Depend, however, on one thing as 
 
 certain : Sir Murdock Maclairn is no fit 
 
 instrument for cunninc; or baseness. His 
 
 wife is an unoffending, depressed woman : 
 
 F 3 
 
102 LADY MAC LAI RN, 
 
 I am told she is highly accomplished. 
 Miss Howard is now I find with her aunt 
 Miss Lucretia. The captain occasionally 
 visits the hall. The baronet is regaining 
 his health; and Malcolm is a second 
 JEneas. Whatever be the result of your 
 measures, recollect that Miss Cowley is 
 within my reach ; and prepare lier to 
 expect a steady and vigilant protector' ^ 
 
 *' In your sincere friend, 
 
 *'GEORaE WOODLEY," 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. 103 
 
 =3f 
 
 CHAP III, 
 
 IVl R. Hardcastle read the above letter 
 to his attentive hearer: he waited for 
 some moments for her observations on 
 its contents ; but finding she remained 
 silent, he said, *^ My dear child, recollect 
 that you are not obliged to comply with 
 Mr, Flamall's orders." " I have never 
 for an instant supposed myself in his 
 power," answered she calmly. " This 
 account of his connections, however, 
 gives me satisfaction, because it will 
 serve to remove from your mind all fearg 
 for my personal safety. It is of no import- 
 ance to me what are the characters of 
 this Flamall's relations at present, it i* 
 f4 
 
104 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 sufficient that they appear neither dan- 
 gerous, nor interested in using me ill ; 
 for the rest I am prepared." ** Be also 
 prepared to be just," replied Mr. Hard- 
 castle. " Mr. Woodley says his infor- 
 mation rests on public rumour and public 
 opinion. Your father knew .Mr Philip 
 Flint and Mr. Flamall : suppose, for a 
 minute only, that his will was the result 
 of that knowledge, and that the man 
 .he recommends to your notice is one 
 that is worthy of you ; without binding 
 yourself to any conditions, you ought to 
 see this young man whenever he arrives, 
 and to listen dispassionately to whatever 
 he has to plead, both for his honour and 
 his pretensions. Consider him only as 
 Oliver Flint's brother, and as standing 
 remote from Mr. Flamall and the family 
 at Tarefield. His affinity to worthless 
 people, granting it be so, is no proof of 
 his worthlessness ; and surely the esti- 
 mation in which he is held even by your 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 105 
 
 father's report of him, entitles him to a 
 fair hearing whenever he appears atTare- 
 iielcl." "I shall, whenever' that happens," 
 repHecl Miss Cowley, ** receive him with- 
 out resentment or caprice, and soon con- 
 vince him that my resohition is unalter- 
 able." *' And what answer am I to make 
 to this letter?*' asked Mr. IJardcastle, 
 producing a renewed appHcation from 
 a young baronet in the neighbourhood. 
 *' If vou will have the g-oodness to 
 transmit my answer to Sir George," 
 replied Miss Cowley, " you will oblige 
 me ; it is a brief one : I am an engaged 
 woman ; and should not this silence him, 
 he will prove that he is not a gentleman, 
 nor a man of sense. — To what purpose 
 should I conceal from him, or the world," 
 added she, throwing her arms around 
 j\Ir. Hardcastle'-s neck, '^ an attachment 
 in which I glory ? To what purpose 
 refrain from telling my father, and my 
 friend, that I love Horace liardcastle ? 
 T 5 
 
106 LA3Y MACLAIRlKr, 
 
 He knows that I love him, and have 
 loved him for years." *' My dear child !" 
 said the subdued Mr. Hardcastle, tenderly 
 returning her embrace, '^ endowed as 
 you are, I would with pride acknowledge 
 you as my daughter were you pennyless; 
 but circumstanced as I am, Idare not 
 listen to your pleadings. I am too old, 
 and too tenacious of a good name, to 
 risk it by a compliance so evidently in 
 favour of my son's fortune : and you are 
 too young, and too inexperienced, to 
 know whether that compliance would 
 secure to you the happiness it promises. 
 I will imitate you in frankness : regard 
 me as your best friend, not as Horace's 
 father. Leave to time the discussion of 
 a subject of which you are at present 
 disqualified to judge. Horace, like 
 yourself, is young, I advise you to avoid 
 entering into any engagements with him 
 till more acquaintance with life shall 
 nave decided hi^ character and rendered 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA NY. 10/ 
 
 you a better judge of liis merit. Re- 
 member also, that should you persist in 
 cherishiug the sentimeuts you now en- 
 tertain of tliis young man, that you 
 cannot give to your friends any apology 
 for your preference more ostensible, 
 than that of placing no temptation in 
 the way of his integrity. It will be the 
 only wealth he can bring to the account 
 of yours ; and although many will say it 
 is nothing in the scale they judge by, 
 some will be candid enough to confess, 
 that virtue knows no inequality of con- 
 dition. But let me say yet a few words 
 more," added he ; ^' and think you are 
 listening to your mothe7\ to that being 
 who trained you to be what you are." — 
 He paused for a moment. — " She would 
 tell you, my dear Rachel, that there is 
 no period of a young woman's life, in 
 which she is less qualified to judge for 
 her own happiness, than the one in which 
 you are at present. Yoii are under aa 
 f6 
 
108 LADY MACLAIRK, 
 
 influence which renders your judgment 
 weak. Unacquainted with vice, and 
 with all the affections of nature and in- 
 nocence glowing in your bosom, you 
 give to imagination an office with which 
 it ought never to be trusted ; and to the 
 lover it selects the qualities of your own 
 pure heart. For a time, this delusion 
 passes ; but what is often the conclusion? 
 Sometimes, a too late conviction that 
 what had been cherished as a supreme 
 good^ is a certain ruin; and still as fre- 
 quently, that what had been called a 
 permanent affection, is discovered to be 
 nothing more than a flight of youthful 
 inclination. I may surprise you by 
 saying, that, without any imputation 
 on your principles, or degradation of 
 your understanding, you may cease to 
 love Horace Hardcastle." " Never!'* 
 exclaimed the impatient Miss Cowley. 
 ** V/e are not the children of folly, nor 
 the slaves of passion i Read that lettei: 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. 109 
 
 which I received from your son, and 
 then judge of the hasis on which our 
 hopes rest. I have promised Horace to 
 respect his father's honour, and to pre- 
 serve his, and I will never write to him 
 till I have your consent." ** I am satis- 
 fied," answered Mr. Hardcastle, hastily 
 rising to quit the room. ^^ Oh hear 
 me !" cried Miss Cowley ; detaining him 
 by his clothes : " as a sister, as to my 
 early friend, surely now and then I may 
 be indulged." "You shall want no informa- 
 tion of his safety," answered the retreat- 
 ing Mr. Hardcastle, interrupting her and 
 instantly retiring. *' Inflexible man !" 
 said she, bursting into tears. " Ah, 
 would to Heaven that mother to whom 
 he referred, lived to confute his argu- 
 ments ! She only knew Rachel Cowley — 
 she only knew her Horace." ^ 
 
 Relieved by this effusion of sorrow, 
 her spirit took its natural bias, and 
 
no LADY MACLAIKK, 
 
 though disappointed in her wishes of 
 gaining permission to write to her 
 brother Horace, it may be at least 
 conjectured, that the opposition she 
 had been unable to conquer, did the 
 lover no injury; for it is most certain, 
 that she attributed Mr. Hardcastle's 
 conduct to a pride and scrupulo- 
 sity far removed from good sense, 
 and deficient in kindness to her. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANTT. Ill 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 JVliSS Cowley lost nothing of hep 
 firmness in relating the above conversa- 
 tion to her friend Lucy. ^' I must think 
 Mr. Hardcastle too rigid," said she, *' in 
 prohibiting all correspondence between 
 me and Horace; but I will obey him as 
 my father. I leav^e you, my dear Lucy, 
 but it is to defeat malice. The honour 
 of Mr. Hardcastle is not less dear to 
 nie than my own, and I will prove to 
 the world that I am qualified to judge, 
 and to determine. I have now duties 
 before me that will give solidity to my 
 mind. My father has left two children 
 besides myself, and convinced as I am, 
 that Flamall is a villain, I will omit no 
 
112 L A P Y M A C L A 1 R N, - 
 
 occasion of detecting his artifices. 
 Sheltered under this roof, I can never do 
 this; hut hy bending to his authority I 
 may make hiui tremble. Should I fail 
 in this purpose, 1 am still secure ; for 
 Horace will not want my fathers wealth 
 to make him happy ; and when I am of 
 age, it willdepend on you to determine 
 whether Mrs. Dawson's legacy to her 
 grand-daughter is to be a curse,''' Poor 
 Lucy, unable to reply, only w^pt, and 
 saw with bitter regret her friend's prepa- 
 rations for leaving Heathcot. A letter 
 from Sir Murdock Marlain hastened her 
 departure; and Mrs. Allen and Miss Cow- 
 ley were escorted to London by Mr. 
 Hard castle a few days previous to the 
 baronet's arrival, and took up their 
 temporary abode at Counsellor Stead- 
 man's. 
 
 Few of my readers will refuse their 
 sympathy to the dejected and faithful 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY, 113 
 
 g-iiarclian during this anxious period. 
 With a father's apprehensions, Mr. Hard- 
 castle saw youth and beauty torn 
 from his protecting- care; and with 
 ang-uish of soul, did he now contemplate 
 the traits of his pupil's mind, and tlie 
 charms of her person ; but of this person 
 no more will be said, than applying to 
 Rachel Cowley the poet*s interroga^ 
 tion, 
 
 Can Virgil's verse, can Raphel's touch impart, 
 Those finer features of the feeling heart, 
 Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, 
 And in the world's contagious circle die ? 
 
 Rogers's Pleasures of Memory, 
 
 Having now brought my readers to 
 the point in which my history may be 
 said to commence, I hasten to place 
 before them a correspondence, which 
 will better serve my purpose than any 
 talents I possess. I shall content myself 
 
114 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 in future with supplying the few breaks 
 I find in the narrative ; and leave the 
 reader to judge of my discernment in 
 thinking the unstudied language of 
 truth and nature better than any I could 
 substitute in their place. Miss Cowley 
 jshall speak for herself. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle^ 
 
 Tarkfield, June 24th. 
 
 The short note which your father has, 
 before this, delivered to you, and M^iich 
 I trust you have destroyed, my dear 
 Lucy, as a proof unworthy to be pre- 
 served of your poor Rachels little 
 advancement in self-knowledge, shall, if 
 it be possible, be rendered useful to me 
 as a warning against presumption. But 
 although I have been taught by experi- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXV. 115 
 
 ence not to think too highly of my 
 wisdom, yet I mean not, Lucy, to give 
 up the reins to folly. You will have no 
 more despairing rhapsodies from me. 
 The question has been decided, and 
 reason tells me, that in a difficulty which 
 admits of no other alternative but that 
 of either laughing or crying, it is but to 
 take that which will least disagree Math 
 my constitution. You have, my dear 
 Lucy, called me many times a twin 
 sister of my favourite Beatrice. Whe- 
 ther you meant to compliment me as 
 having a portion of her wit, or meant 
 to repress in me the superabundance of 
 her spirit and flippancy, remains Avith 
 yotj-to settle. I am contented with there- 
 semblance, and I will, if I can, preserve 
 a light heart, and her disdain of fools 
 and knaves. I will, however, effect my 
 purpose of breaking through the web of 
 mischief which now entangles me, Avith- 
 out wishing ** I were a man," or *' eating 
 
lie 
 
 !Mr. FlamalJ's heart in the market-place;'* 
 a more severe punishment will only sati- 
 ate my vengeance. He shall live to feel 
 the stings of a wounded conscience, and 
 to see me happij, — But again Heathcot 
 rises between me and my heroic inten- 
 tions! Alas, my Lucy, it will, for a 
 time at least, defeat every purpose of 
 wisdom ! I must weep ! Its beloved in- 
 mates are before me ! I see them silently 
 glancing their humid eyes to my vacant 
 place at their peaceful table; and, with 
 looks of sympathy, pitying each other 
 for the absence of their fondled, cherished 
 Rachel. Who will now, my Lucy, de- 
 fend you in your walks from the terrific 
 cows? Who will now guard you from 
 the wasp's approach? Who will now 
 explore your path in your evening's ram- 
 ble, and secure your timid footsteps from 
 the tremendous frog ? Alas ! you have 
 no Rachel Cowley to guard and. to 
 laugh at you! She is, and well may )I 
 
THE VICTIM OF VI LLAXV. 11/ 
 
 say, alas ! and alas ! far remote from 
 tliese ber accustomed and sweet duties I 
 She is too remote, also, to hear tlie gentle 
 and persuasive admonitions of her Lucy. 
 Who is there here to repress with a smile 
 my too volatile spirjts, "to divert my pe- 
 tulance and check my pride?" Where 
 am I now to seek that friend, Avhose ap- 
 probation, like the dew from heaven, 
 tempered my rough elements with her 
 own simple and mild virtues? We were 
 formed, Lucy, to be each other's aid and 
 support. We are made for Heath cot 
 and contentment. Will ^Ir. Hardcastle 
 persist, think you, in thus defeating, as it 
 appears to me, the designs of Providence? 
 Oh no ! nor can he long remain uncon- 
 vinced that my father was incapable of 
 defrauding his child of those rights of 
 nature which he granted to his slaves. 
 He cannot, Lucy, persist long in prohi- 
 biting Horace from writing to me. He 
 must perceive the injustice, as well as 
 
1 
 
 118 LADY MAC LA IRK, 
 
 severity, of his present conduct. Never 
 to write to the companion of my youth, 
 to a brother endeared to me hy a thou- 
 sand and a thousand fond remembrances 
 of pure and unimpassioned aifection ! 
 Surely this is being too rigid ! Such is 
 not Mr. Hardcastle's mind. He will 
 relent in compassion to himself. In this 
 hope only can I find a relief from my 
 present state of mind. I cannot, Lucy, 
 support my plan of conduct Avith forti- 
 tude whilst I find your father thinks 
 meanly of me; and is it not obvious, 
 that he believes me weak and childish ? 
 Why am I not to be confided in ? His 
 honour is my own ; Horace's disgrace 
 would be my destruction ; and, agaiii I 
 repeat it, I would not now marry your 
 brother were the world your father so 
 much dreads, to solicit me to be his wife. 
 No, Lucy, Horace Hardcastle shall have 
 no accounts to settle with my new guar- 
 dian ! Farewell, I cannot proceed. Mrs, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 119 
 
 Allen's blessing and your Racliel's must 
 not be omitted. She is contended with 
 me, and bids me tell you that I am a 
 very good girl. Will not this please 
 you ? You smile. 
 
 . LETTER II. 
 
 Miss Coxvleyy in continuation, 
 
 TAREFIE1.D, 
 
 FjNDiNG myself somewhat the wiser 
 for a few hours repose, I will profit by 
 the unavoidable delay of my yesterday's 
 letter to add to its bulk, and to pour into 
 your patient ear a larger portion of those 
 thoughts which I know not what to do 
 with till they are communicated to you. 
 I shall therefore inform you, that I lost 
 no time in giving Sir Murdock Maclairn 
 a specimen of that damsel's temper whom 
 it had cost him so many wearisome miles 
 to seek. But I will be modest, and tell 
 you also, that I had been spirited up to this 
 
1^0 LADY MACLAIRX, 
 
 undertaking by Counsellor Steaclnian; 
 for as be bas no son to beguile me of my 
 beart, and is too old bimself to wisb for 
 more of ittbaube bas, be was determined, 
 M'itbout consulting your fatber, to see 
 whetber I could figbt my own battles. 
 Tbus prepared, I asked tbe courteous 
 baronet, before my dear counsellor, wben 
 be meant to commence bis journey to 
 Tarefield. A solemn bow prefaced his 
 reply. — ** He was at my directions on 
 tlmt point." — " Indeed," answered I, 
 smiling, " you surprise me ! I suspect 
 my new guardian bas ill-cbosen you for 
 his substitute. I fancy he would not 
 altogether approve of your complaisance 
 to your prisoner J" He fixed bis eyes on 
 .my face, but was silent. ^' I mean not 
 to bribe you," continued I, "for you 
 appear too indulgent to need it; but I 
 do wish to make our journey to Tare- 
 field pleasant; and that cannot be unless 
 we travel as good friends. By a will now 
 
T H E V ICrnt 0¥ V r L LA N Y, 121 
 
 substantiated as legal, and called niyfa- 
 ther's willy Sir Murdock, I am committed 
 to the controul of a man, who, till within 
 a few months, was a stranger to that parent 
 I deplore, and to whose name and office 
 was affixed a post at Mr. Cowley's writing- 
 desk. It ought not to surprise yoii, 
 therefore, if I think it necessary to act 
 with caution under these circumstances. 
 I am an entire stranger to Mr. FlamalFs 
 character and principles; and yet lam 
 ready to accept of your house, Sir Mur- 
 dock, as an asylum proper for me. But, 
 understand nie: motives absolutely re- 
 mote from Mr. Flamall's power and 
 authority over me, have induced me to 
 give up a protection under which I have 
 been safe and happy from my infancy. 
 I trust to you VQluntanlt/y for I beh'evc 
 you to be a man of honour. To Mr. 
 Flamall I leave the pi'ovision he may 
 judge necessary for his master's daughter 
 whilst under your roof. If lam to give 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 LADT MACLAIRN, 
 
 credit to my partial friends, I am not 
 capricious; but I am very jealous of my 
 independence. , Lady Maclairn, as well 
 as yourself, Sir Murdock, must be told 
 that I have decidedly and firmly refused 
 the husband provided for me by my fa- 
 ther's will. I expect to be exempted 
 from all importunities on the subject of 
 Mr. Philip Flint, These would not only 
 tend to make my residence with you 
 unpleasant, but also short; for I shall 
 without delay conv^ince Mr. Fiamall that 
 Rachel Cowley's person is not included 
 in his extrai)rdmary trust. I have only 
 to add, that I am ready to set out when- 
 ever you please, and shall with cheer- 
 fulness attend you to an abode which I 
 promise not to disturb by any discon- 
 tents." 
 
 ^^^ Sir Murdock, who had r\ot^oT2CVi instant 
 taken his eyes off me, started when I 
 ceased speaking, aud for ^et^er^/ moments 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 123 
 
 appeared extremely agitated ; his coun- 
 tenance varied with the oppression with- 
 in, and he paced the room once or twice 
 in profound silence. At length, with 
 collected firmness, .he said, I had sur- 
 prised him. **^Mibrnot prepared to 
 answer Miss Cowley's suspicions of IMn 
 Flamall," said he, addressing the coun- 
 sellor, *'hut I know that I have had no 
 sinister views in coming hither. I have 
 no designs either on her person or pro- 
 perty; nor can I easily conceive that 
 ]\Ir. Flamall has. We were strangers 
 till very lately, to all that regards this 
 young lady. ' The proposed alHancQ'was 
 transmitted to us, as an argument in 
 favour of the plan now under considera- 
 tion. It produced the effect Mr. Flamall 
 wished, it conquered our reluctance to 
 receiving under our roof a stranger to 
 our habits of life. , These are so retired, 
 that we naturally judged they could not 
 he agreeable to a young lady; and wt 
 Ji2 
 
124 
 
 should have persisted in our refusal, had 
 not Mr. Flamall pointed out to us the 
 propriety of the measure he recommend- 
 ed. If Miss Cowley, or Miss Cowley's 
 friendsj be not satisfied with what I have 
 asserted,'* added he, spreading his hand 
 on his chest and colouring, *' I would 
 not for all the riches in the world have 
 her under my protection ; but I have yet 
 to learn, that Sir Murdoch Maclairn has 
 been judged a fit agent for dishonour !" 
 His eyes were again turned on me^ they 
 instantly softened, and I saw he trembled. 
 *' Say no more, my good Sir," cried I 
 with my usual eagerness, and taking his 
 hand, "I bless Providence for conduct- 
 ing me to you, under the necessity which 
 forces me to quit Heathcot. I will love 
 Lady Maclairn for your sake, and tell 
 her, that I am grateful to you for hear- 
 ing me with so much patience." Never 
 shall I forget him, Lucy, whfn with a 
 countenance expressive of the utmost 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 12^ 
 
 sensibility, he said to Counsellor Stead- 
 man with solemnity — *' She will be safe 
 as the child of my bosom. She will be 
 guarded by a vigilance equal to your 
 own and i\Ir. Hardcas tie's. As a deposit 
 sent by Heaven, I will receive her." Do 
 you know that I was so affected that I 
 wept, and repented of having urged 
 him to this explanation. Mr. Steadman 
 assured him, that he was perfectly satis* 
 fied, and the conversation gradually 
 became less interesting. I mentioned 
 with diffidence my friend Mrs. Allen. 
 " My wife will rejoice to find you bring a 
 companion with you," said he; " she 
 fears that you will think Tarefield very 
 dull. My bad health has produced a 
 love of home in her, as well as myself, 
 that will not easily be overcome." " Be 
 under no fears on that head," observed I, 
 smiling, ** I am one of those profound 
 philosophers who are never alone." He 
 smiled in his turn at my vivacity. ^' You 
 g3 
 
126 
 
 will like my wife, Miss Cowley," said he, 
 *' she is the gentlest and the best of 
 women. One so peaceable, that she will 
 not quarrel with you for your barbarity 
 to her son. I am not yet at home," 
 added he with more cheerfulness, "there- 
 fore not yet tongue-tied ; but permit me 
 to assure you, that Philip Flint is not 
 undeserving of your good opinion, though 
 he may be too presurnptuous in his hopes. 
 I have, however, nothing to do with this 
 affair," continued he; *' having from his 
 cradle strictly adhered to one rule of 
 conduct, namely, that of leaving him to 
 his tender mother's care, and the direc- 
 tion of his m^re immediate connections. 
 Happily his education has not been ne- 
 glected. But I was unequal to the 
 duties of a father, even to my own Mal- 
 colm'' His poor head mechanically sunk, 
 a,nd he took, greedily, three or four 
 pinches of Scotch snuff. We finished by 
 settling the hour oP our departure; 
 
TilE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 127 
 
 for I found he wished to leave Lon- 
 don. 
 
 My next letter shall place before you 
 more particularly this interesting Sir 
 Murdock Maclairn, the originaUty of 
 whose person and manners has so pow- 
 erfully excited my compassion and curi- 
 osity, that I cannot but bless fortune for 
 throwing him in my Avay. lie is no 
 common character, Lucy ; and the pecu- 
 liar sadness which from moment to mo- 
 ment pervades his countenance, is to me 
 inexpressibly touching. I should have 
 detested a stupid laughing face for le 
 compagnon du "voyagCy that conveyed 
 me from my Heathcot ; and as the next 
 best thing to being happy oneself, is 
 making others so, I forgot in my endea- 
 vours to make Sir Murdock comfortable 
 that every milestone was to me a memen" 
 to mori. It is yet rather problematical, 
 whether I shall like his lady as well as I 
 G 4 
 
M^ LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 do him. But I know not how it happens, 
 that I am less disposed to fall in love 
 with my own sex than with the other. 
 I have loved, dearly loved, men old 
 enough for my ^re^/-^re«/-grand-father, 
 but rarely have I been attached to old 
 ladies. Must we acknowledge the truth, 
 Lucy ? We may as well ; the poet has 
 spoken it : ** most women have no cha- 
 racters at all," So farewell, and be sure 
 to love even the follies of your own 
 Rachel Cowley, for they are not bor- 
 rowed, at least, my dear girl. Supply 
 for me kind words to Sedley. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 From the same to the same. 
 
 Your father's wisdom in hurrying 
 you away to Barton- lodge, instead of 
 permitting you to remain at Heathcot, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILI-ANY. 129 
 
 like another Niobe, dissolving in tears, is 
 so like him, that it neither surprises me 
 nor Mrs. Allen; and if the^ cheerful 
 mistress of the most cheerful mansion 
 contentment ever found, cannot comfort 
 you, I shall be angry and chide my 
 Lucy. 
 
 You tell me your father smiles, and 
 refers you " to Rachel's pen" for all that 
 relates to Sir Murdock Maclairn's first 
 interview in town ; '' he (Mr. Hard- 
 castle) being too jealous of the baronet's 
 favour with me, to be impartial." In 
 reply to Mr. Hardcastle I make him one 
 of my best and most saucy curtesies; 
 and tell him that I understand perfectly 
 the cause of his discretion ^nd hmnility. 
 He is like many other sinners, ^yiUing to 
 compromise matters with conscienc<?, 
 and to tempt others to do that which he 
 dare not do hiinself, in order to share th^ 
 
136 LADY MCLAIRN, 
 
 gratification of wickedness at a less price. 
 How often have we seen him check his 
 mirth and ^poil a good story, by saying, 
 ** this is folly, neither the weaknesses nor 
 the frailties of our fellow- creatures, my 
 children, areph)per subj^jjcts for mirth:" 
 and yet he can lay a snare for me. How- 
 ever, I have neither his charity nor 
 benevolent toleration, and think folly 
 fair game. But Ili^ve not folly to laugh 
 at, in the subject before me; yet, Lucy, 
 in the dearth of all rational amusement, in 
 a separation from all whom I love, do you 
 think I can want an excuse for my pen, 
 should it offend charity? Self-preserva- 
 tion is a duty no less obligatory than 
 self-government; and as I am cut off 
 from the banquet of wisdom, have I not 
 a right to cater for myself ? " Certainly :" 
 aud if I can live upon worse ^ fare, and can 
 be contented with what is wholesome, 
 though not delicate, will any one blame 
 me? **No:" well then, this privilege 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 131 
 
 being granted, please to understand, that 
 neither my compassion nor goodnature 
 are yet starved out; for were that the 
 case, Sir Murdock Maclairn would be 
 the most unsuitable dish for the cravings 
 of my hunger. It is, however, most as- 
 suredly true, that this gentleman's first^ 
 appearance produced on me not only 
 surprise, but the most powerful incite- 
 ments to be wicked. Figure to yourself 
 a very tall large-boned man, meagre as 
 ** pining atrophy ;" high cheek-bones, 
 which still more hollo wed his sunk features; 
 a complexion jaundiced by sickness and 
 tinged by Scotch snuff, which he takes 
 in immoderate quantities; a long crane 
 neck, which is tightly bound with a 
 narrow black stock; a few scattered 
 hairs, Avhich still maintain their car- 
 roty colour, tyed in a queue; a sunk, 
 though broad chest, and a plaintive 
 voice, in which however are cadences to 
 please the ear whilst attending to an ar- 
 06 
 
132 LADY MACLAIRN, ^ 
 
 ticulation slow, and sometimes laboured. 
 Add to this picture, an abstracted manner, 
 and an air of sadness; and you will not 
 be astonished that I should for a few 
 minutes fancy Malvolio present, and that 
 I looked for *'his yellow stockings and 
 cross garters." The eagerness with which 
 he gazed upon me strengthened my 
 imagination, and I did not dare to smile, 
 lest I should hear him say — 
 
 ** Thou canst not chuse but know who I am : 
 If thou entertainest my love, let it appear by thy 
 
 smiling. 
 
 Thy smiles become thee well." 
 
 At this moment my eyes encountered 
 those of Sir Murdock's, and my heart 
 smote me ; for in language more touch- 
 ing than sounds of harmony could im- 
 part, they said, " Pity me, for I am the 
 child of sorrow ; respect me, for I am 
 acquainted with grief." I blushed, and 
 forgot Malvolio, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLaNY. 133 
 
 For several days, however, I could not 
 reconcile myself to the keenness and pe- 
 culiar attention Avith which these large 
 blue eyes surveyed me. An expression 
 in them of a famished look (I cannot 
 better define its eagerness) yielded, as he 
 continued to gaze on my face, to a 
 melancholy softness, not unfrequently 
 heightened by a tear; but I found that 
 he was subject to an absence of mind, 
 which it appears has resulted from many 
 years bad health and low spirits. Tbis, 
 with his ceremonious demeanour, and the 
 no inconsiderable degree of his national 
 accent, render him pecuharly singular. 
 Not expecting much amusement on the 
 road with a companion to whom you 
 may speak half a score times before he is 
 sensible you expect an answer, I took 
 care to provide myself with a book ; and, 
 by chance, I robbed the counsellor of 
 Macpherson's Ossian. The united libra- 
 ries of the ancient and modern world, 
 
134 LADY MACLAIRX, 
 
 could not have better supplied me with 
 an author calculated to rouse the atten- 
 tion of Sir Murdock. I was tempted to 
 read aloud some passages, and he listen- 
 ed with a feeling that surprisedma:) 
 the sorrows of Malvina. " Have you 
 never read Ossian ?" asked I. ** If I 
 have," replied he, ^'1 have forgotten 
 him during an indisposition that left me 
 nothing but a capacity to feel my own 
 wretchedness." A deep sigh and the 
 depression of his head silenced me. He 
 soon urged me for more of my book; 
 but I was grieved that I had introduced 
 to his acquaintance a work so powerfully 
 calculated to *' awaken fancy, and to 
 touch the heart'* of the poor baronet. 
 
 I cannot describe to you the enthusi- 
 astic bursts of feeling and admiration 
 which followed every sublime passage 1 
 selected ; and his tears flowed to the pa- 
 thetic touches of the poet^ **I will read 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILALNY. 135 
 
 no more to you," said I, Avitli good hu- 
 mour and closing the book : " Ossian is, 
 to a mind like yours, a bad writer." 
 " There is a joy in grief, when peace 
 dwells in the breast of the mourner," an- 
 swered he in a plaintive tone. " It may 
 be so,'' replied I, ** but the mourner 
 ought to remember, ' that sorrow wastes 
 him." *' I do not attribute my faintness 
 to grief," observed Mrs. Allen laughing, 
 *' but to downright hunger; and I must 
 beg to stop at the next stage for some- 
 thing more substantial than Ossian." Sir 
 Murdock instantly began his apology 
 for his omission at the last inn. *' I for- 
 got," said he, " that every one could not 
 hke myself fast twenty-four hours with- 
 out inconvenience. Early habit has 
 made abstemioiisness of no account with 
 me," added he, '^ I have fasted six-and- 
 thirty hours formerly, without experi- 
 encing any considerable diminution of 
 strength," ** Have you never thought 
 
136 LADY MACLAIRN, , 
 
 such a disregard to the wants of nature 
 pernicious ?" asked I, surveying* with 
 compassion his lank figure. " I had then 
 other cares," answered he; ** my soul,, 
 like that of Oithana,. was not as care-^ 
 less as the sea which lifts its blue waves^ 
 to every wind, and rolls beneath the 
 storm." He fixed his eyes on my face, 
 and spoke no more till we reached our 
 destined post-house. Here Mrs. Allen's 
 orders were quickly obeyed, and we 
 pressed him to take some refreshment 
 with us ; and to judge by the voracious- 
 ness of his appetite, he must have ex- 
 ceeded his usual time of fasting. We 
 were, however, too well pleased with the 
 effects of ham and cold chicken on him, 
 as well as on ourselves, to trust to his 
 memory for a repetition of the cordial ; 
 and Mrs. Allen undertook the manage- 
 ment of us for the remainder of the 
 journey. The replenished baroiiet be- 
 came more and moje conversible as we 
 
TIIK VICTIM OF VILLAN'Y. 137 
 
 proceeded. He had even transient gleams 
 of cheerfulness, and finding that I per- 
 sisted in keeping back the ^' tales of the 
 times of old," till he, like other poor 
 mortals, eat three meals a day, he con- 
 tented himself^ and amused us by describ- 
 ing in glowing colours the grand and 
 picturesqtie scenery he remembered in tlie 
 western isles of his beloved Scotland ; 
 and with evident delight lie traced a 
 similarity of manners and customs be- 
 tween his country and ancient Greece, 
 marking with precision the common 
 features of resemblance that had struck 
 him between the heroes of Ossian and 
 Homer. From this learned dissertation 
 he condescended to talk of France, in 
 which country he had passed his youth. 
 He praised my accent, and seemed pleas- 
 ed that I knew the language, speaking 
 with rapture some passages from Racine. 
 *'Do you also understand Italian ?" asked 
 he. I replied, '^ As a schoof-girU' He 
 
138 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 smiled mostgraciously — I wish you coukl- 
 see him smile, Lucy ! and with a sup- 
 pressed sigh he said, '^It may serve to fill 
 up your time, my dear Miss Cowley, to 
 accept of the assistance of * a school- 
 boy' in this language ; there was a time, 
 when it was as familiar to me as ray 
 mother tongue, or the French ; hut my 
 memory has hecn many years lost to me 
 as a source of pleasure. A reverie suc- 
 ceeded to this ohservation, and Mrs. 
 Allen and I insensihly retraced our steps 
 and got to Heathcot-Farm. We talked of 
 Lucy Haidcastle ; when, to our surprise, 
 the good haronet interrupted us by 
 observing, that our friends at Heathcot 
 had an advantage of which it was pro- 
 bable they ^vere not aware* ** Heathcot," 
 added he mournfully, ** will never re<:ede 
 from your mind whilst you are at Tarc^ 
 field. — This is my fear: yet still I think 
 you will be pleased with my Harriet. 
 §he is as gentle and pure-hearteci ds your 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. ISf/ 
 
 dear Lucy. She will be miserable, if siic 
 lliil in making you comforrablc." You 
 will suppjy our answer. lie continued 
 to talk of his wife, and told us, tluit to 
 her persuasions he had yielded reluctant- 
 ly to undertake a journey which had 
 separated him from her more hours, than 
 for many years before he had been mi- 
 nutes: ""' but she thought," added he, "that 
 it would be beneficial to my health and 
 spirits; and these are of value to me, 
 because essential to her happiness.'* He 
 spoke with animation of her faithful love, 
 and added, " She is now counting the 
 hours till she sees me." 
 
 . When arrived within five miles of 
 Durham we left the road, and pursued our 
 way through a flat country, unmarked by 
 any thing cheerful ; and reached Tare- 
 field -hall at about eight o'clock in the 
 evening cf our third day's journey. The 
 liouse, as we approached it, struck me 
 
140 LADY MACLATR^% 
 
 as having been originally built in^ that 
 style of architecture for which we are 
 indebted to William the III. and Dutch 
 taste ; but as each successive proprietor 
 conceived his own to be as good, and 
 had money for its indulgence, it exhibits 
 at present samples of all : turrets and 
 chimneys: high roofs and flat ones; 
 latticed bows and Venetian windows, and 
 wings added to wings. 
 
 I find, however, many good -sized 
 rooms within; and when we get ac- 
 quainted with the ^ve staircases, and as 
 many thresholds, we shall, I believe, have 
 seen all that is curious in the manoi;- 
 house, commonly called Tarefield-hall. 
 I must not, however, omit as its beauty, 
 a noble avenue of elms and horse-ches- 
 nuts, the latter in full bloom, and which 
 embellishes the dull scenery around. 
 This avenue is flanked on each side by a 
 rising plantation of some extent, and h 
 
TliL VICTIM OF A^ILLANY. 141 
 
 devoted to modern improvement ; the 
 walks are neat and trim, and it is filled 
 with shrubs. 
 
 Now mark me, Lucy : here I am at 
 Tarefield ; and here does my history fi- 
 nish, unless you are good and tractable. 
 Horace was not even named in your last 
 letter. — This will not do. You had better 
 not provoke me: I have rich materials 
 before me, but I will have my price for 
 them. Take in the mean time the kiss 
 of peace from your 
 
 Rachel Cowley, 
 
U2 
 
 rn 
 
 hChap. .^(,, 
 
 From the same to the same. 
 
 \ OUR dear letter, in wliicb I find you 
 can he reasonable and good, was deli- 
 vered to me yesterday, by a gentleman 
 \v}\o lives in. this neighbourhood; the 
 Mr. Woodlcy, our Counsellor's corre- 
 spondent. He is, I find, land-steward to 
 
 the Duke , and resides at Bishop's- 
 
 Auckland, the nearest market town from 
 hence, lie was frank and cordial in his 
 offers of service, and we soon settled our 
 terms of amity. He will be our post- 
 master, and from this time you may 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 143 
 
 swell your budget at your j)lcasure, and 
 send it to Counsellor Stead man's. Our 
 servants will carry mine to Mr, Wood- 
 ley's, for we have daily intercourse with 
 the market. 
 
 Bat now for your reward. It shall be 
 ample, for I wish to encourage young 
 beginners; and being positively con- 
 vinced myself, that you may, without 
 breaking any one commandment in the 
 decalogue, fill a page with intelligence 
 relative to my brother Horace, I do hope 
 to convert you, and strengthen your 
 faith in my tenets. A mistaken and 
 punctilious observance of an injunction, 
 which your father's /e^r^, rather than his 
 reason, have given you, would be down- 
 right sinning against friendship ; so 
 " look to your ways and be wise." 
 
 It was evident, that some ceremony 
 
144 XADY MACLAIRN5 
 
 had been judged necessary for the re- 
 ception of the heiress; and I was re- 
 ceived with much form and some parade 
 in the best parlour. But as nature had 
 not been consuhed in these arrangements, 
 she chose to spoil them ; for poor lady 
 Maclairn, instead of remembering her 
 compliments, rushed into her husband's 
 arms and wept. It was no longer Mai- 
 volio, Lucy ! No; it was the toil-worn 
 * Ulysses soothing his faithful Penelope. 
 The picture was complete; for an old 
 spaniel was licking his feet at the 
 moment. I cannot take a more favour- 
 able time for giving you a sketch of 
 Lady Maclairn's person ; for whilst her 
 beautiful black eyes w^ere still humid ^ 
 with tears of joy, and her delicate face 
 suffused with the mixed emotions of 
 contentment and a recollection of her 
 neglect of the strangers, I forgot she 
 was Flam all's sister. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 145 
 
 I should judge Lady Maclairn to be 
 nearly fifty years old ; she is of the middle 
 size and elegantly formed. Her beauty 
 is of that sort which I have heard called 
 pure English; namely, hair approaching 
 to black, black eyes, and a complexion 
 of the finest texture and colour. Her 
 features are small and regular. She is 
 extremely pale, but not with the hue of 
 sickness ; and it behoves Lady Maclairn 
 to think aright, for every feeling of her 
 mind is accompanied by a soft blush on 
 lier face. This, with a certain timidity 
 and peculiar gentleness of manners, ren- 
 ders her appearance more feminine and 
 youthful than matronly ; yet she is 
 graceful, and speaks with propriety and 
 judgment So far my conscience ac- 
 quits me of malice. 
 
 She had no sooner finished her flut- 
 tered M^elcome, than she presented to me 
 the Brobdignagian, Miss Lucretia Flint, 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
141) LADY MACLAIRN", 
 
 who, ilia stiff green damask gown and 
 petticoat, niiglit have conveyed to a 
 soberer imag-ination than mine the idea 
 of a mountain clothed in the hvery of 
 spring ; bnt on mising my eyes to mea- 
 sure its elevation, a stern countenance of 
 ** Burdoth's" sort intercepted my curio- 
 sity, and I caught only a glimpse of its 
 snowy summit. She condescended to 
 bend, and offered me her glowing cheek, 
 which I approached with fear and tremb- 
 ling. In order to recover myself, I 
 begged Sir Murdock to introduce me to 
 his son, who had modestly kept at a dis- 
 tance. He made his bow; and we began 
 to chat on the little occurrences of the 
 journey. *' You must have found it 
 very tiresome," observed the stately 
 Miss Flint, fixing her eyes on the con- 
 tented baronet, '' I am sure I have pitied 
 you, Miss Cowley." *^ Pitied me!'* re- 
 peated I, with an air of astonishment, 
 ** I wished our journey had been as long 
 
THE VICTlBf OF VILLANY. 14? 
 
 again! and could Sir Miirdock have for- 
 gotten the road to Tarefield, I Mould have 
 kidnapped him, and made the tour of 
 England." The saver of links and 
 torches was silenced, and I talked with 
 Malcolm Maclairn of a country and a 
 route which he appeared to know perfectly. 
 
 Miss Flint at length with much gra- 
 vity asked how long we should have to 
 wait for supper. Mrs. Allen requested 
 permission to retire to lier room hefore it 
 was. served, pleading a slight sense of 
 fatigue. The cou:teous mistress of the 
 mansion accompanied us to the destined 
 apartments, and with the utmost solici- 
 tude for Mrs. Allen's accommodation, 
 urged her to have a maid-servant to 
 assist her. This she declined ; and I 
 returned to the family party with hei" 
 ladyship, well knowing that Mrs. Allen's 
 zvhim, not the headach, was at the bottom 
 of the business ; for she will have it thai 
 n 2 
 
148 LADY MAC LA I RN, 
 
 the spoiled child does not sleep unless 
 she places the pillo^^. 
 
 Malcolm Maclairn is the image of his 
 mother ; but he is glowing with health, 
 and his manly countenance is embrown- 
 ed bv air and exercise : I do not believe 
 that Sidney's Arcadia has a handsomer 
 shepherd than this village beau. 
 
 In a few minutes my attention was 
 called from Malcolm, ])y the appearance 
 of a beautiful apparition, which gliding 
 softly by me, told Lady Maclairn that 
 t^upper was served. She was retreating 
 with the same light foot, when she hesi- 
 tated, and courtesying to Sir Murdock, 
 she said with gentle accents, she was 
 rejoiced to see him. ** Thank you, my 
 dear Mary," was his laconic reply, at the 
 same time taking her hand. As the 
 beautiful phantom passed me, she blush- 
 ed, and quickened her pace/ " Good 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 149 
 
 Heavens!" cried I, "why, Sir Murclock, 
 how has it happened that you did not 
 prepare nie for the sight of that angeJic 
 creature, now gone out of the room ! I 
 I never beheld so lovely a girl !" ** She is 
 indeed, a very beautiful creature," an- 
 swered Lady IMaclairn in an under-toned 
 voice. *' She is Afiss Flint's niece, and 
 lives with her here." We moved to the 
 supping room ; and I eagerl}' looked for 
 the niece, recollecting Mr. Woodley's 
 historv. ** Do we not wait for the vonnj^ 
 lady r' asked I. '* Oh, dear no," an- 
 swered Miss Flint, commencing with a 
 hot lobster, " Mary does not sup with 
 lis." iVIalcolm pursed up his rosy lips, 
 as if to whistle, and his knuckles gave 
 the tune of *'The Babes in the Wood." 
 I became tired in a minute, and as dry 
 as the dry toast I swallowed. Willing 
 to reserve my petulant humour for this 
 ungracious aunt's sole use, I retired to my 
 room as soon as the cloth was removed. 
 H S 
 
150 JLADT MACLAIR^% 
 
 I found, as I had suspected, the inde- 
 fatigable Mrs. Allen still engaged in 
 arranging her pefs clothes. Before I 
 could begin my lecture she eagerly asked 
 mc whether I had seen Miss Flint's or- 
 phan niece. ** I never was more ashamed 
 of a mistake in my life/' pursued she; 
 " but after you left me I began to unpack 
 what I knew you would want in the 
 morning. A maid-servant entered to 
 take my orders for supper ; she mention^ 
 ed several things, but I requested a sandr 
 wich and a glass of table beer : these 
 were brought and placed on the table. 
 Some little time after, some one tapped 
 ^t the door, and the prettiest girl I ever 
 saw in my life entered with a small 
 waiter, on which was a tart and some 
 -cream. *' I have ventured to intrude, 
 Madam," said she, ** in the hopes that 
 you may be induced to add something to 
 your supper." She glanced her eyes to 
 the sandwich, which had remained uu- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAIvY. 151 
 
 touched. ** Permit me to assist you," 
 added slie, placing her dainties on the 
 table, *' let me try to uncord that box 
 whilst you take some refreshment." 
 Thinkino; from her dress that she was a 
 domestic, I complied and sat down to 
 eat my supper: during this interval I 
 looked at her with admiration; which 
 soon changed to pity, Avhen I saw how 
 delicate she was. and what hands I had 
 employed. '* I beg," said I, *' you will 
 cut the cord, you seem no more equal 
 to it than myself. You are not strong,- 
 my poor child ; your labours, I trust are 
 light here." She blushed, and her sweet 
 eyes filled with tears. *' My feebleness 
 is a misfortune," replied she, ** which I 
 owe in part to the tenderness with which 
 I was reared. I lament it, although my 
 station in this family imposes no labour 
 on me: I am Miss Flint's niece." I made 
 a thousand excuses. '^ Indeed, Madam, 
 you have given no offence, ".said she, 
 h4 
 
15S LADT MACLAIRN, 
 
 wiping her eyes. ** On the contrary, I 
 envy the condition of those in every cliass 
 of Hfe, who are able to fill up usefully 
 that station to which Providence calls 
 them ; too much care, too much tender- 
 ness have, I fear, unfitted me for mine." 
 She again dissolved into tears. *' I 
 should not have said thus much," added, 
 she, "for I have nothing to regret, but 
 being a burden to my relations. Your 
 .residence here, however, would soon in- 
 form you that Mary Howard lost every 
 thing at the death of her mother." 
 
 ** My dear young lady,*' answered C 
 endeavouring to sooth her, and now 
 observing that she wore a black cotton 
 gown, ** you must not despair; your loss 
 has probably been recent ; time will do" 
 
 She interrupted me. ** Oh, no!" 
 
 cried she. The chamber door opened, 
 and the chamber-maid hastily said, ** My 
 dear Mary, you forget how time goes; 
 
THE VICTIlT OF Vlt-IANT. 153 
 
 your aunt will be enquiring." The poor 
 girl took the friendly hint and hastily 
 withdrew. I now employed the maid to 
 untie the trunk, and, with my praise of 
 Miss Howard, mentioned something of 
 my error. " No wonder," said she, witli 
 honest indignation, '' dressed as she is ! 
 But she is Mr. Howard's child for all 
 that, and would ])e so in rags. Such 
 relations ! say I: I woidd weed in a ditch 
 rather than owe my bread to such." A 
 bell sounded, and the girl withdrew, 
 saying, ^* You will soon see, Madau), 
 that I am riglit.'' 
 
 *' Good God !" continued the anxious 
 Mrs. Allen, '' what will you do, my dear 
 child, in a house where a niece envies 
 the condition of a servant, and m here a 
 servant is kinder treated than an aiinf?'' 
 '' Do !" replied I, '^ why I will make 
 those who are in it blush/' She shook 
 her head; and I took it into mine that she 
 n 5 
 
154 ^ LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 had not met with proper deference. Tlie'. 
 storm of passion was rising, Lucy; but 
 I was pacified by Mrs. Allen's assurance 
 that she had not been overlooked, and I 
 found there had been no difference made 
 in the accommodations prepared for the 
 heiress and her /r;e^2^. It was well: for, 
 is she not my friend? Did not my dying 
 mother give me to her ? Did not yours 
 bid me cherish her? and when I fail, may 
 Heaven abandon me ! Let these people 
 dare to be impertinent, you will soon see 
 us at Heathcot ; at present, however, 
 my anger flows only in one channel. My 
 iirst employment here shall be to teach 
 Miss Flint a lesson, and to shew her tliat 
 Rachel Cowley abhors oppression. 
 
 I will finish this three day's journal by 
 sending you a description of the damsel^ 
 for whom I mean to draw my sxvord 
 should it be necessary ; you will say it 
 has an tdge ; so much the better when 
 employed to correct cruelty. 
 
In stature, Miss Howard is about my 
 height, but in synimetrv and proportion 
 of form, so completely Grecian that you 
 must look for her model in the gallery 
 at Florence. To perfect the resemblance 
 the more, she wears her hght-brown 
 locks, nearly flaxen, braided up and 
 fastened round lier head, whilst a black 
 ribband confines the redundancy of the 
 ringlets from covering her snoivy fore-' 
 head ; her eyes are the darkest blue I ever 
 saw, and, perhaps, to their colour it is 
 owing that I never yet saw eyes so ex- 
 pressive at once of spirit and softness : 
 .. at one moment they make their appeal 
 to the lieart by the imploring l6ok of' 
 infant- trust^and confidence; at another, 
 they bespeak a soul Avithin, equal to the 
 duty of checking -insolence; but thesej 
 emanations are transient, and a melah-^ 
 choly expression of tenderness, rather 
 than of sorrow, more commonly beaitis' 
 from them. To what shall I hken lier 
 H G 
 
156 LADY MAC LAIRN, 
 
 complexion ? I can find nothing but a 
 white rose newly refreshed by the dew 
 of heaven : its delicate smoothness and 
 modest blush exactly correspond with 
 Mary's skin ; for its tints would confound 
 the painter to imitate ; her smile would 
 convert frenzy to peace, though lost on 
 Miss Flint's flinty heart ; and her voice 
 would soften the tigress when robbed of 
 her young. 
 
 I know what you will say : *' This is a 
 sketch in Rachel Cowley's style, when 
 compassion guides her pencil. It is a 
 thousand to one that this poor girl is. 
 any thing more than a pretty one ; her 
 youth and depressed fortune have lent 
 their aid to an imagination that always 
 employs vivid colours. We must place 
 Miss Howard's picture by the side of 
 Miss Flint's." Do so, Lucy ; the time may 
 come, and I liope will come, when you 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 15T 
 
 shall recant, and the triumph of truth 
 shall be that of your 
 
 Rachel Cowley. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 From the same to the sams. 
 
 Without entering into your comments 
 on the power of bribery when in such 
 hands as mine, I will content myself 
 with my influence over an affection which 
 can be just to friendship and yet faithful 
 to duty. I appeal to your understand- 
 ing, Lucy; has there been one wish to 
 render your good offices hurtful to your 
 father, or pernicious to Horace and my- 
 self, yet offered to ensnare you ? I hav'e 
 a right to hear of his welfare ; and by 
 detailing the little occurrences which 
 mark our respective existences, you are 
 
doing" no harm. Your conditions are 
 accepted with joy, as the means of pro- 
 ducing comfort to my brother. You 
 shall have my day-journals, and night- 
 journals, if you will;- my very dreams 
 shall be sent you. Ah ! would to Heaven 
 you could give me Horace's! 
 
 To begin, however, with your '* me- 
 thod," My first flight's repose at Tare- 
 iield was disturbed by Mary Howard's 
 image and my own fretfulness. The 
 dawn of day presented to my sight 
 Solomon, in his judgment-seat, who grin- 
 ned upon me wi.th an- aspect not less 
 savage than that' of the two viragoes 
 who held the sprawling boy between 
 them ; for, sooth to say, no one could 
 have traced tlie mother's features, or the 
 clemency of the judge in the mass of 
 worsted employed ; and I believe the face 
 of the lions that decorated the aiscent to 
 
THE VICTIM Oi? VILLANY. 159 
 
 the throne, was the common one for the 
 whole multitude of countenances that 
 filled the room. Weary of looking at 
 this odious tapestry, I arose, and explored 
 my way into the garden. Here, indeed, 
 I found the sweet perfumes of nature and 
 the god of day; but for the rest let the 
 poet speak — 
 
 . " Grove nods ai grove, each alley has a brother, 
 And half the platform just reflects the other; 
 The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, 
 Trees cut as statues, statues cut as trees.'* 
 
 This being too much in the style of the 
 tapestry in the bed-chamber, soon tired 
 me ; and seeing the servants about, 
 I sauntered into the avenue. Here the 
 horse-chesnut trees, in all their pride, at- 
 tracted my attention for a few minutes; 
 but I was soon allured towards- an object 
 still more inviting. Mary was before mc, 
 walking with the light-foot of a Dryad, 
 and your not inactive friend bounded 
 
160 LADY MACLAIRN", 
 
 after her. Exercise and surprise height- 
 ened the Vermillion in her cheek, and 
 with a sweet and graceful modesty she 
 saluted me with the usual compliments. 
 I gave the reins to my heart, and it was 
 not idle. She said I was very good ; 
 that indeed it would greatly enhance to 
 her the pleasure of walking in a morning 
 if she were pei^mitied to attend me, but 
 her aunt frequently wanted her services. 
 She would, however, endeavour to gain 
 an hour sometimes, for the honour of 
 walking with me. A certain trepidation 
 and lookino: on all sides marked some 
 fear; and I was on the point of encourag- 
 ing more confidence, when we saw the 
 haronet approaching us. He was wrap- 
 ped up in an old plaid morning gown, 
 his head enveloped in a black silk cap^ 
 and his attention was engaged by clear- 
 ing a tattered silk sash from the inter- 
 posing brambles. He started on seeing 
 me, and would, I believe, have retracted 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. lol 
 
 had not my voice detained him. On 
 accosting him his poor sallow face was 
 in contusion, and with a forced smile he 
 asked me whether he had not frightened 
 me, glancing his eyes to his uncouth ha- 
 hlliments. 1 took his arm, and rattled 
 over some account of my having fright- 
 ened ^liss Howard. He hecame easy 
 and cheerful, and told me that Mary and 
 he had very often an assignation to keep 
 in the avenue at too early an hour for 
 the business of the toilet. The turret 
 clock sounded eight, and Alary left us. 
 You may suppose she became the subject 
 of our conversation. ^^ She is," said he, 
 *' as faultless in mind as in person; my 
 wife says she is the image of her mother's 
 pure and now beatitied soul; but that 
 she is also like her father, not only in 
 her person, but in a firmness of character 
 whicli her mother wanted. Her parents 
 were unfortunate," continued he, with 
 his usual depression of voice and head 
 
lG2 LADY MACLAIRN", 
 
 when afflicted. ** Slie is in the hands of 
 an aunt who bated them ; a woman na- 
 turally harsh and violent. We cannot 
 coritroul her power, without danger to 
 ourselves ; but we suffer deeply from be- 
 ing* the witnesses of this poor girl's mor- 
 tifications. My wife, Miss Cowley, is a 
 mother; her son Philip is Miss Flint's 
 favourite ; she has called him her heir 
 from her cradle, and she has exacted in 
 return from his mother, a submission 
 which has annihilated even the wish of 
 being independent. She is gentle, hu- 
 mane, and unambitious, but she is — a 
 slave — — ! These domestic grievances will 
 not long escape your observation. I am 
 passive ; for my Harriet wishes me not to 
 interfere. I only dread lest you should 
 despise us." '^ Be assured, SirMurdock," 
 answered I with seriousness, *' that this 
 fear is groundless ; I am more disposed 
 to pity than to blame. As a stranger I 
 remarked Miss Flint's ungracious and 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. ]63 
 
 petulant manner, and I honestly confess 
 I pitied her. She might yet be corrected ; 
 a little wholesome contradiction is all that 
 is necessary." ^' You have only to try an 
 easier experiment," replied he, smiling, 
 ** and you will succeed by only engaging 
 to marry her idol." *' Were I but pri- 
 vileged," answered I, *' you should see 
 her perfectly tamed by my employing 
 nothing more than her own arts of tor-^ 
 nienting. I doubt not but in the first in- 
 stance her idol, as you call her young 
 brother, secured his power in this way.'* 
 *' Indeed you are mistaken," said he, 
 ^' Philip Flint was ever mindful of his 
 own honour, though grateful for an af- 
 fection, unbounded in its liberality to 
 him.*' 
 
 Lady Maclairn's appearance prevented 
 more. She came to summons us to break- 
 fast, and with the utmost frankness told 
 me that she had been to pay her respects 
 to Mrs. Allen, who was very busy with 
 
164 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 her band- boxes, and had ordered a break- 
 fast and a maid-servant into her apart- 
 ment. She conducted me, whilst chat- 
 ting, to the '' Old Wing," in which Miss 
 Flint more partic^ularly holds her state; 
 and we found her richly decorated, and 
 waiting for us at a tea-board most splen- 
 didly set out. Sir Murdock had mecha- 
 nically, I suspect, followed our steps, 
 and entered the room with us. Miss 
 Lucretia's face flushed a deeper dye. 
 ** Good God, Sir Murdock!" exclaimed 
 she, you are enough to frighten one in 
 tJ^at trim:' " Did I frighten you?" 
 asked he in a plaintive tone, and with a 
 look which would have softened any 
 Flint but the one before him. He was 
 retreating. ** I will hav^e no infringe- 
 ment of our treaty of amity," cried I 
 gaily, and gently placing him on the 
 sofa beside me. ^* It is my turn to 
 frighten you to-morrow morning, by 
 shewing myself in my wrapping gown 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA NY. 163 
 
 and night-cap. We have nothing to do 
 Avith ceremony and constraint : let those 
 have it who fancy tliey are never dress- 
 ed without white- fingered gloves." I 
 glanced my saucy eyes on Miss Flint's 
 starched muslins; she perceived the ap- 
 plication, hut I was en ti^ain; and affect- 
 ing to he hungry, I took a roll and di- 
 vided it between mv silentneiohbour and 
 myself; and finding I^dy Maclairn was 
 to preside at the silver tea-board, I im- 
 patiently begged a cup of chocolate. 
 Then, with well-counterfeited recollec- 
 tion, I said, "But wheie is Miss Howard } 
 she is better entitled to her breakfast 
 than I am, for she was walking before 
 me." Mary does not breakfast with me,*' 
 replied Miss Flint, " she has it in her own 
 room." *' I am glad I have so good a 
 precedent to produce for my humour,'! 
 answered I, '* though it deprives me of 
 present pleasure ; I also usually breakfast 
 in my own room, for I regard an hour 
 
156 LADY MACLAJllN, 
 
 in the morning as the most precious iii 
 the clay. But as a stranger," added I, 
 smiling, " may I presume to ask when^ 
 and at what hour, I may hope to see this 
 beautiful creature? Does she dine also iir 
 her own room ?" This question was an- 
 swered with much haughtiness. *^ As a 
 stranger, Miss Cowley," said she gravely, 
 ** it may surprise you, to find so near a re- 
 lation of mine under restrictions v/liich I 
 deem proper. ]\Iary knows my views; 
 these extend no farther than to make her 
 riseful, and to qualify her for the station 
 in life which the imprudent conduct of 
 her parents has destined her to fill. She 
 must be humble. " Besides," continued 
 she, relaxing into more civihty, *' your 
 praises of her beauty quite alarm me, 
 and would turn her silly head. She is 
 young, and vain and silly enough to 
 think herself a very pretty girl." -^^ Why, 
 my dear Madam," asked I, ^* laughing 
 at the extreme gravity of this remark, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 10/ 
 
 **how in the name of common sense, can 
 ]\Iiss Howard think otlierwise of a face 
 and a person so exquisitely formed, and 
 so consonant to every idea she can have 
 of beauty and grace ?" *' Oh, as to that 
 point," answered she with a toss of her 
 liead, "she will soon discover, if her 
 pride do not stand in her way, ** tliat 
 beauty is all fancy, and the face she 
 worsliips may not be tliouglit wortli a 
 second look by another." '^ I grant," 
 answered I, '* tlie justness of your obser- 
 vation in a general way: I know that 
 our ideas of beauty are in many instan- 
 ces local, and depend on taste; I will do 
 more, I will grant, that in many parts of 
 the habitable globe JMiss Howard's per- 
 sonal charms might be regarded as defor- 
 mities: but as she is in a country which 
 secures her from any competition with 
 fiat-nosed, long-eared, and black-skinned 
 beauties, I do not see how you can pre- 
 vent her knowimg that she is peculiarly 
 
168 LADT MACLAIllN, 
 
 endowed with those external advantages, 
 to wliich her situation and the acknow- 
 ledged taste and opinion of those around 
 her, have given the power of attraction 
 and the tribute of admiration." " You 
 may say what you->"6l]/* rephed Miss 
 Lucretia, with an asperity of tone in 
 unsonwith her harsh features;" but I 
 wish from my soul this poor girl had no 
 bsauty. We have had enough of tliat 
 perishable commodity in our family ! 
 Besides," added she^ softening her voice, 
 *^ you appear to have overlooked a lesson 
 which every handsome girl ought to 
 know. I have heard many sensible men^ 
 Miss Cowley, observe, that the best 
 sauce for the relish of beauty, is the 
 ignorance which the possessor has of its 
 power to call forth admiration, or to 
 attract notice and favour." '• I should 
 have told * your sensible men," replied 
 I, *^ that I well knew the taste for ^ Mo-^ 
 here's Agnes' was not yet worn put. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILIANY. \6^ 
 
 Ignorance is more friendly to the sen- 
 sualist than to the moralist; and I always 
 suspect those who wish to see a young- 
 woman unconscious of her own advan- 
 tages. It is also, in my opinion, illiberal^ 
 and unjust to c ^ dude that a woman 
 is vain because she is handsome. A 
 weak understanding has, in numberless 
 instances, given to even uglyrnd deform- 
 ed women a conceit of themselves, which 
 is as pitiable as it is ridiculous; and we 
 See them daily exhibiting faces and per* 
 sons with the most entire persuasion of 
 their being attractive, which excite only 
 disgust and ill-natured animadversions. 
 No, no. Madam," continued I, " beauty 
 does not of necessity make a woman 
 a fool; a plain understanding and a very 
 little experience will teach her to appre* 
 ciate it justly ; but she will, and she 
 ought to bring it into that account of 
 gratitude she owes to her Maker ; for it 
 is a good gift, inasmuch as it renders 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
I/O LADY. MACLAIRNT, 
 
 US pleasing in the eyes of our fellow- 
 creatures, and conciliates that affection 
 which would otherwise be languid and 
 careless." 
 
 The baronet had not apparently given 
 his attention to one word of this conver- 
 sation, for though his eyes were fixed 
 on me, he seemed totally absorbed in his 
 own reflexions. ** You have not listen- 
 ed to this debate, my dear Sir Murdock,'' 
 observed his wife, pressing his passive 
 hand, *^ otherwise I would cTall upon you 
 as umpire between the contending par- 
 ties." '• You are mistaken," answered 
 he smiling, *' I have not lost a syllable 
 of what has passed, and my decision is 
 ready. No adventitious advantages will 
 engender conceit or vanity in a mind 
 that has solidity, and that rests upon 
 those principles which alone can bestow 
 real eopcellence and produce permanent 
 esteem. But I am curious to know by 
 what means Miss Cowley has acquired 
 the wisdom to estimate so justly an 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 171 
 
 advantage which it must be confesserV 
 ■with her face and at her age, one would 
 not have expected.'* — *' I will convince 
 you," replied I with gravity, '^ that if I 
 am not vain, it is because I am proud. I 
 was educated by a woman, who, to good 
 sense, joined every virtue that adorns 
 the female character. Her example, as 
 much as her precepts, contributed to 
 form me: and such washer influence, 
 that to resemble Mrs. Plardcastle was 
 the purpose of my life, even before I was 
 qualified to judge of her merit, or to 
 Hieasure the ascent I had to gain in my 
 approaches to her perfections. Mrs. 
 Hardcastle was a handsome woman ; but 
 she was neither vain nor affected. Yet 
 I will confess, I wished to be as hand- 
 some as Mrs. Hardcastle, who was indeed 
 a beautiful woman; fori particularly no- 
 ticed the consideration her elegant persoa 
 produced before strangers. But a lesson, 
 which I still remem])er, checked, it may 
 I 9 
 
172 "SLADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 be, the vanity of the girl. I was, wheit. 
 about twelve or thirteen years old, one 
 morning alone M'itli my mother, as I 
 called Mrs. Hardcastle, when our reading 
 was interrupted by the visit of a neigh- 
 bouring gentleman, who had however 
 been some months on a tour. No soon- 
 er had he received the frank and easy 
 welcome of Mrs. Hardcastle, than he 
 examined me ; and with the most elabo- 
 rate praise spoke of my improvement, 
 growth, and extraordinary beauty. Dur- 
 ing these commendations, which, al- 
 though they made me blush, did not 
 offend me, my maternal friend was good 
 humouredly caressing his dog, which was 
 a very ugly cur. "You have not lost your 
 enthusiasm for beauty I perceive," ob- 
 served she smiling. "But what is become 
 of your pretty Italian grey-hound } and 
 how happens it that her post is filled up 
 by this miserable looking animal?" *'I 
 would npt give that dog," replied he> 
 
T Jl E V I C T 1 M F V I L LA NY. • 1 73 
 
 *' for an hundred Italian grey-hounds, 
 each more beautiful than Fidele. She 
 was not worth the keeping, except as a 
 plaything to my little nephew: but this 
 dog has qualities which are inestimable.'' 
 Mrs. liardcastle laughed, and turning 
 towards me said, with that sweetness 
 which so distinguished her, *'You see, my 
 dear girl, the xcorth of beauty when un- 
 friended by useful talents: remember 
 poor Fidele, and take heed to be some- 
 thing better than a play- thing for a school- 
 boy.'' I did not forget this lesson, and it 
 was the more useful to me, from finding, 
 in the gentleman's subsequent visits, that 
 whether it was a piece of old china, a 
 tulip, or a young lady's eyes or complec- 
 tion, he was equally hberal of his praise, 
 and employed much the same language. 
 I was therefore offended by his enco- 
 miums ; and I am become so proud and 
 fastidious on this point, that I always 
 think the compliments paid to my per- 
 I 3 
 
J 74 lADY MACLAIRN) 
 
 son, include a sarcasm on my under- 
 standing." 
 
 ** All this argues nothing against my 
 opinion,'* said the inflexible virgin. **With 
 your understanding, beauty may not be 
 a dangerous gift, but in ninety and nine 
 instances out of a hundred it is so, and 
 leads the possessor into danger." " So 
 you may say of health, of spirits, of in- 
 tellectual endowments, nay, even of life 
 itself," replied I ; "for each in its turn 
 is abused by the folly and passions of a 
 mind unchecked, and uncultivated. But 
 our neglect of a blessing does not lessen 
 the value of the gift; and for my part, 
 were I in your place, I would recommend 
 to Miss Howard, in the enumeration of 
 thosemercies she owes to her Maker, or^!- 
 iitude for a form and a face which open 
 to her every bosom in M'hich humanity 
 resides." — *' You ought to be very pious 
 indeed," replied she, with an air of pique, 
 *' fof most assuredly there is no compa- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. 1?^ 
 
 rison between your beauty and Mary's. 
 
 She has a pretty baby-face" " For 
 
 charity's sake stop tliere," cried I, " I am 
 contented with my face at present, but I 
 do not know what your comparison may 
 produce. I think it too good a one to 
 be mended by cold cream or Spanish 
 wool; and I know it is too honest a one 
 for a deceitful heart. As a good title 
 page I am thankful for it, and I will 
 take heed that the work within shall not 
 disgrace it, when read by the eye of 
 truth." 
 
 What, my Lucy, could occasion the 
 deep blush which suffused Lady Mac- 
 Jairn's countenance when I said this, 
 merely with a view to finish a conversa- 
 tion I was weary of, and which detained 
 me from going to Mrs. Allen ? I had risen 
 from my seat w'hilst speaking, and jaw 
 a tear escape from her eye. Would a 
 mind unacquainted with guilt have felt so 
 random a dart? I know what will be 
 I 4 
 
176 LADT MACLAIR:?^, 
 
 your answer. However, it was evideni 
 I had touched a sensitive plant ; and my 
 retreat was necessary. I reminded the ba- 
 ronet of his promise to assist me in ar- 
 ranging our books, without any diminu- 
 tion of my gaiety. *' Do with me what 
 you please," replied he, *' so that I ani 
 not in your way : but shall I not surprise 
 Mrs. Allen by my appearance?" He 
 glanced his eyes «to his tattered gown, 
 ''We will run the hazard," said I, pas- 
 sing my arm through his, " for it i§ 
 ten to one but she is in her night- cap, 
 and chiding my idleness." He smiled. 
 Lucy, I would you could see this man'^ 
 countenance when thus lightened up J 
 Surely, never did Heaven more graciously ' 
 decorate the face of woe ! It is with an 
 expression, which not only awakens 
 compassion, but which also produces 
 reverence." 
 
 As I had foreseen, Mrs. Allen had 
 made our task light. It was well she 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. I7j 
 
 had ; for to say the truth, the baronet 
 ^as so entirely engaged by Humphrey 
 Clinker as to forget his office alto- 
 get lier. Lady Maclairn soon after 
 found Mrs. Allen and myself busily 
 enraged in our work. She with alacrity 
 assisted us, and, with a look of sweet and 
 composed tranquillity directed to her 
 husband, she said, in a li'alf whisper, 
 " Are you aware, my dear Miss Cowley, 
 that I am incurring a debt which I can 
 never pay ? Heaven, who appears to have 
 commissioned you to heal the broken-in- 
 spirit, can alone recompense you. But 
 you will know more of the being you 
 will save ; and you will understand that 
 mv C'ratitude must need lanouao-e, for I 
 have not words that ean express my 
 feelings." She pressed my hand with 
 fervour. ^' What will you say," conti- 
 nued she, " when I tell you tliat he has 
 been inquiring after his turning-wheel, 
 
 ^nd talking to me of renewing an em- 
 1 5 
 
178 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 ploynient in which he formerly delight- 
 ed ! You are the spring of his activity ; 
 he means to make you a reading-desk. 
 Are not these blessed indications of his 
 amendment?" I found no difficulty, Lucy, 
 in translating Lady Maclairn's language 
 or expression while she was thus speaking. 
 She loves her husband. Time, your grand 
 specific, will settle my opinions as they 
 relate to this lady ; in the meanwhile, I 
 cannot well account for her secret in 
 making me like and dislike her by turns. 
 Sometimes she appears the most artless 
 and ingenuous of her sex ; her conversa- 
 tion becomes animated, and her thoughts 
 flow with a frankness as unpremeditated 
 as your giddy Rachel's. The next hour 
 I see her, she is silent and ceremonious, 
 conceding to all that is done, trembling- 
 ly alive to all that is said. To-day she 
 oifended me at dinner. Miss Flint sharp- 
 1}^ reprimanded her niece, for not being 
 in the room before the last bell rang. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 17§ 
 
 The innocent creature mildly said, she 
 had been in the garden with Sir Muv- 
 dock, who had detained her. Whv Mas 
 Lady Maclairn silent? Ought she not to 
 have checked Miss Flint in the display 
 of an ill humour, for which the cause was 
 so trifling ? I wish to see more of a de- 
 cided protection in her manner to this 
 poor girl. Her civihty does not content 
 me, and I sometimes fancy there is a ser- 
 vility in her observances, that marks a 
 little mind. 
 
 I have well earned my promised re- 
 compence. I shall expect a long detail 
 of Horace's adventures by sea and land : 
 if you fail, farewell to your gossiping 
 historian, 
 
 Rachel Cowley. 
 
 i6 
 
180 tADT MACLAinW, 
 
 CHAP VI. 
 
 BETTER VI. 
 
 From the safne to the same. 
 
 oINCE my last, I have had some con- 
 versation with Mr. Malcolm Maclairn, 
 which, as it interested me, will make the 
 subject of my present lucubrations. He 
 returned home last night from an excur- 
 sion which almost immediately followed 
 mv arrival here. I met him this morn- 
 ing in the garden, and he joined me. 
 After civilly apologizing for an absence 
 from home so soon after I was his mo- 
 ther's guest, he said, his father had not 
 been for many years in a state of health 
 
THE VICTIBI OF VILLANY. 181 
 
 which admitted of aiiy interruption by 
 business. '' But," added he, with seri- 
 ousness, " with what satisfaction do I 
 now devote my time to his ease and com- 
 fort, when I compare his present condi- 
 tion with the sufferings of his mind that 
 I have witnessed ! This morning he was 
 not only curious to learn the success of 
 my little journey, but conversed with 
 me on the subject of it with precision 
 and interest. In time his long habits of 
 seclusion and indolence will yield to the 
 natural energy of his character, and the 
 activity of his mind. I have cherished 
 this hope, Miss Cowley, from the hour I 
 was capable of reflecting on the nature 
 and operations of my fathers malady. I 
 never coitld believe he was what he was 
 called, nor that his case was incurable 
 lunacy. The event has justified my opi- 
 nion. After many years of suffering 
 under the most afflicting hypochondria- 
 cal attacks, he was suddenly seized by a 
 
182 LADY MACLAIRN", . 
 
 violent fever, which for many days baffled 
 medicine, and repressed every hope; the 
 crisis was favourable. We were prepared 
 to expect not only extreme weakness in 
 his bodily powers, but also that debility 
 of mind wliich inseparably belongs to a 
 state of nearly renovated existence. He 
 remained for a time a mere infant ; but 
 we perceived that with his increasing 
 strength, his mind was clear from those 
 gloomy images which had so long ob- 
 scured it. He continued to gain strength ; 
 but unfortunately his memory, too faith- 
 ful for his advantage, represented the 
 scenes which had passed. He became 
 painfully susceptible to a sense of humi- 
 liation the most unfriendly to his perfect 
 recovery. No arguments could prevail 
 on him to appear, even before the ser^ 
 vants of the family, for a considerable 
 time, lest he should terrify them ; and 
 his persuasion was so strong that he 
 Avas disqualified to appear in society, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 183 
 
 that my dear mother ceased to importune 
 him on the subject. Unsupported, and 
 I may add, friendless as we are on the 
 side of connections, no efforts were made 
 to combat opinions which were more the 
 result of extreme delicacy and habitual 
 indulgence, than of a still disturbed 
 imagination. I was convinced that my 
 father wanted only a stimulus sufficient- 
 ly powerful to rouse his mind, and to 
 recover his native powers of acting. 
 About this time, we received Mr. Fla- 
 mall's letters, with his plan of your be- 
 coming an inmate at the hall. My 
 father was extremely averse to the pro- 
 posal. He affectingly drew a picture of 
 himself, and with tears appealed to 
 his wife to determine whether he was a 
 fit object for the observation of a girl 
 who had no acquaintance with misery, 
 and who would shun him as an object of 
 dread and disgust, or laugh at his eccen- 
 tricities. Miss Flint's wishes were an- 
 
184 LADY MaCLAIRK, 
 
 swered with firmness. ' Pie should quit 
 Tarefield.' I had arguDients more po- 
 tent. — Let it suffice for the present," 
 continued Malcohii with emotion, '' that 
 / knoxv Mr. Flamall; and that my father 
 knows him to be a villain. I urged, and 
 seriously urged, that by his rejection 
 of the proposal Flamall had made, you 
 might fall into less honourable hands ; 
 that he might, by an apparent acquies- 
 tencQ circumvent designs, which, as 
 originating in a mind devoid of every 
 principle, must be liable to suspicion. 
 * You may not,' added I, * be able al- 
 'together to redress the grievances which 
 this young lady will have to endure under 
 the controul of such a guardian; but 
 under your protection she will be secure. 
 Convince Miss Flint, and let Mr. Fla- 
 mall understand, that you are no longer 
 the ' idiot,' ' the lunatic,' they have 
 proclaimed. At no period of his life was 
 Sir Murdock Maclairn better qualified ta 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXr. 185 
 
 feecome the defender of innocence. l\fy 
 arguments prevailed, and his journey to 
 London to receive you, was determined 
 on. My poor mother's spirits sunk into 
 terror. She resolved to attend Sir Mur- 
 dock, and urged with many tears, the 
 danger of his going by himself; but I 
 was resolute. It Avas indispensibly re- 
 quisite to renew in my father's mind a 
 confidence in his own strength, and to 
 permit him experimentally to feel that 
 he was a rational being, and fully com- 
 petent to the care of himself and of you. 
 He departed alone ; and with a solicitude 
 and terror which I will not attempt to 
 describe. I followed his carriage. I 
 had the comfort of finding on the road, 
 that although the singularity of his man- 
 ners excited curiosity, no one called in 
 question his faculties of action, or sus- 
 pected he had been deranged. I lodged 
 at the same coffee-house in which he did, 
 and slept in Xhe next room to him. I 
 
186 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 followed his footsteps, and watched his 
 return from Counsellor Steadman's by 
 means of a young man who Avas in his 
 office. From this gentleman I also learn- 
 ed, Madam, some particulars relative to 
 your situation at Mr. Hardcastle's, and, 
 with this information to appreciate justly 
 your character, and that of the friends 
 from whom you were to be separated. I 
 reached the hall not more than two hours 
 before your arrival, with the unpleasant 
 conviction on my spirits, that you would 
 experience under its roof many priva- 
 tions of your accustomed enjoyments. 
 But I also knew, that nothing would be 
 omitted on my mother's part to render 
 your banishment from your friends as 
 easy and as secure as possible. —This mo- 
 ther," continued Malcolm, ^* you must 
 love; for she merits your esteem, and 
 you are just. No language I can em- 
 ploy can describe her conduct as a wife 
 or a mother. Judge then of her gratir- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 187 
 
 tilde to you, for the liumane and delicate 
 attention you give to a husband, for 
 whose sake and for whose comfort she 
 lias lived ! You will no longer be sur- 
 prised, my dear Madam, by the singu- 
 larities of Sir IMurdock, or at the retire- 
 ment in which we live. — Observe those 
 grated windows," continued Malcolm, 
 directing my notice to two in the attics, 
 *' in that apartment did my mother, like 
 an angel of peace administer every ten- 
 der, soothing balm to tlie desponding 
 and disturbed imagination of her belov- 
 ed, idolized husband ! There it was, 
 Madam, that I perceived from time ta 
 tiiue tlie emanations of a mind which 
 neither sickness nor sorrow could entire- 
 ly extinguish. There it was, that I saw 
 tlie spirit of a Maclairn struggling with 
 affliction, and nobly sustaining its claims 
 to the Tueed of virtue !" — He spoke with 
 an animation which 'proved his affinity 
 to his father.--*^ Need I," pursued he, 
 
1^8 
 
 " recommend to Miss Cowley the con- 
 tinuance of those acts of kindness which 
 have already produced the most flattering 
 hopes to my dejected mother's spirits. She 
 tells me Sir Murdock delights in 3'our so- 
 ciety, and that he talks ofyou as a blessing 
 sent to comfort her, and to heal him." 
 ** God Almighty grant it may prove so !" 
 said I, with fervour. ''To be an agent in 
 such a work would make a prison plea- 
 s'Rnt to me ! But I find nothing at Tare- 
 field," added I, " to put my philosophy 
 to the trial. I am perfectly contented in 
 my banishment, except on one point ; 
 and I bespeak your good offices, Mr. , 
 Maclairn, to remedy this griev^ance. 
 Contrive to conquer Miss Flint's dread 
 of my being an improper associate for 
 her niece. From the precautions that are 
 used, I should have thought those grated 
 windows to have been poor Miss How- 
 ard's boundaries." — '' She is another of 
 my dear mother's cares," replied Mai- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT. 189 
 
 colm with eagerness *' But see, Lady 
 
 iVIaclaini approaclies." He bowed and 
 turned towards the gate, whilst I quick- 
 ened my steps to meet her Ladyship. 
 *' I come a petitioner," said she with 
 cheerfuhiess ; '^ my husband wants to see 
 you, and to have your recommendation 
 of another book. I dread lest he should 
 become too importunate ; but only give 
 me a hint, and I will prevent his in- 
 truding.'^ '' Let me at once," answered 
 I, taking her hand, ^' tell you, in un- 
 equivocal language, tliat my enjoyments 
 at Tarefield are so dependent on Sir Mur- 
 dock, that / shall have no spirits, but 
 in proportion as I find myself useful to 
 the return of his. From the first day we 
 met, I promised that we should be mu- 
 tually useful to each other. lie shall 
 teach me wisdom, and in requital I will 
 endeavour to cure him of his indolence." 
 ** God will reward you !" said her Lady- 
 ship, with emotion. — '* The endeavour 
 alone," answered I, " will be a recom- 
 
190 LADY 
 
 pence; yet I am on the point of shewing 
 you I can be selfish. I entreat you to 
 assure Miss FHnt that I am a very harm- 
 less young woman, and that she may 
 with safety permit her niece to be familiar 
 with me." — ^' Would to Heaven," said 
 she, ** it was in my power, Miss Cowley, 
 not only to oblige you in this request, but 
 also to convince you of my own opinions, 
 as they relate to this amiable girl ! But 
 I can only deplore her aunt's harshness 
 of temper. I have neither the authority 
 nor the influence necessary to remedy 
 the evil. Lucretia must be left to the 
 bitter experience which will result from 
 her temper; and Miss Howard must be 
 satisfied with knowing, that she is not 
 the only one under this roof who suffers 
 from its caprices. I am this poor girFs 
 friend, but I cannot lessen the oppression 
 under which she lives, although I abhor 
 it." The Baronet appeared, and I thought 
 his wife was not displeased by the relief 
 his presence brouofht hen. He eladlv ac- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. ipi 
 
 cepted my invitation to breakfast, and it 
 was no sooner finished than he became so 
 engaged with a book as to resemble a 
 statue. 
 
 You say you do not yet know where to 
 find me, should you be favoured with 
 the gift of the renowned Puss and her 
 Boots, and take it into your head to step 
 from Heathcot to Tarefield. Conceiving 
 that, in the fancy of the moment, your 
 imagination had conquered the difficulty 
 of the staircases and thresholds, I will 
 in my turn, fancy you are now in my 
 domicile. My apartment forms the south 
 wing of this irregular building, in which 
 are two specious parlours, which command 
 the east and south, by wh;ch means I 
 have the avenue and the garden for my 
 solace. But on discovering that Lady 
 Maclairn had, from indulgence, a more 
 peculiar privilege in the appropriation of 
 these rooms to her own use, I have in- 
 sisted on their being regarded as hers; 
 
193 .LA€)Y MACLAIRN, 
 
 and I have erected my throne of independ- 
 ence on the second floor, where the 
 rooms are correspondent, only divided 
 into three. It is in the south room you 
 must look for your Rachel Cowley : but 
 you may, if it please you, imagine you 
 are still at home ; for all in this sanctum 
 sanctorum is Heathcot. My work-table, 
 the drawings we did together, Horace's 
 biographical chart — all present to my 
 mind those 
 
 ** Friends of reason, and my guides of youth, 
 Whose language breath'd the eloquence of truth-; 
 Whose life beyond preceptive wisdom taught, 
 The wise in conduct, and the pure in thought/' 
 
 To gratify Sir Murdock, who by no 
 means relished my preference of the se- 
 cond floor for my domain, I have placed 
 my books and the piano- forte in one of the 
 parlours, which has wonderfully demesti- 
 cated us to that room. He is too well bred 
 to intrude on my private hours; but he often 
 induces me to shorten them, for there is ii 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 1^5 
 
 pleasure which belongs to sympathy; 
 and when I see the poor baronet's eyes 
 brighten at my approach, I feel the gaiety 
 which I often assume, settling into con- 
 tentment. Have I said enough to satisfy 
 your curiosity ? Will it not be my own 
 fault if I am dissatisfied v/ith a prison 
 regulated by order and neatness, and in- 
 habited by people who wish to make it 
 pleasant ? I promise you, Lucy, that I 
 will be all you wish me to be; but I 
 must have intelligence of our dear wan- 
 derer. Neither Tarefield-hall, nor Heath- 
 cot itself^ would content me, without this 
 indulgence ; and, to say the truth, I 
 would rather be the " Wet sea-boy" in 
 Lord William's yacht, ^' even when the 
 visitation of the winds takes the billows 
 by the top," than dwell in a terrestrial pa- 
 radise. But this is the romance of a girl f 
 and as Solomon, from the next room, is 
 glaring his large eyes on me, I will profit 
 from the admonition they give me, and 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
I94 LADY MAC LA I RN, 
 
 close this letter and my own eyes for the 
 night. Heaven will, in its mercy, receive 
 the petition I offer for all that is clear to 
 Rachel Cowley, for in that confidence do 
 I live. 
 
 P. S. Mrs. Allen bids me tell you that 
 she finds Tarcfield has a worse report 
 than it deserves. It is haunted only by 
 one unquiet spirit, and that may be said 
 of nine hundred and ninety-nine houses 
 out of a thousand. She has, by her usual 
 address, found the means of quieting this 
 nuisance as it approaches her; for Miss 
 Flint affects to have a great veneration 
 for Mrs. Allen's judgment, particularly in 
 physic, in which she is or seems to be an 
 adept. I heartily wish she may be con- 
 verted to Mrs. Allen's creed, of being 
 " good to all," it would do more for her 
 weak newes — could you but see this 
 woman! — than a [course of valerian and 
 Imrk. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VltLANV, ip5 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 From the same to the same. 
 Obedience in most cases is the best 
 test of love ; and as you command me, my 
 Lucy, to continue faithfully to detail all 
 the 77iinutiai of my domestic comforts, 
 till you are certain I want only you, I 
 will continue to please you. In time you. 
 will, I presume, wish for other subjects; 
 and I beg you will point out to me the 
 means of attaining any more important 
 than my present one. What think you 
 of my studying heraldry, for the purpose 
 of amusing you ? I should have a good 
 preceptor in Sir Murdock; he frequently 
 descants very learnedly on armorial bear- 
 ings, and with much philosophical pre- 
 cicion traces the influence of " hlude^^ 
 from the father to the son, for centuries 
 past. According to Sir Murdock's fa- 
 vourite hypothesis, every cardinal virtue 
 tlepends on having '^ gude blude'' in our 
 K 2 
 
196 ladV maclairn, 
 
 veins; but a truce with nonsense. I be- 
 lieve the good people I am with will 
 please me in all essential points. They 
 have already forgotten that I am a stran- 
 ger. Miss Flint has put aside her da- 
 mask gown and laced suit, and 1 saw her 
 this morning walking in the garden, in a 
 dishabille not far removed from dirty 
 negligence. By the way, the baronet 
 now exhibits a new wrapping gown with 
 Morocco slippers ; and as we walk be- 
 fore breakfast, he usually continues to 
 take that repast in the parlour with us. 
 This hour is gradually becoming useful to 
 him, and his wife also, for she appears to 
 enjoy it as much as he does. I am now 
 convinced that I have innocently occa- 
 sioned to Miss Hovv^ard the privation of 
 her morning exercise. I caught a glimpse 
 of her to-day m the garden, and instant- 
 ly availing myself of the opportunity, 
 took a direction which led me to her. 
 When remote from the windows, I at 
 
TliE VICTIM OF VILLANT. 197 
 
 once entered upon the subject of my 
 fears, and told her that I had been vexed 
 and disappointed hy not seeing her in 
 the avenue. " I must not abridge you of 
 libert}^" added I, ^' and unless your 
 aunt becomes more reasonable, I shall 
 lose my temper. What can be the hu- 
 mour she gratifies by opposing my wish 
 to enjoy your society?" Th'e poor girl 
 was confused — ^' You are very kind, 
 Madam," replied she, *' but my situa- 
 tion here does not admit of the honour 
 you wish to confer on me. I have 
 to learn many things, and my time 
 is necessarily engaged by my duties. 
 I have unfortunately been reared with 
 too much tenderness for the station of 
 life to which Providence has destined 
 me, and it is sometimes difficult for me 
 to forget." — She could not proceed. — 
 " Say rather," observed I with indigna- 
 tion, ^* that it is difficult for you to bear, 
 unmoved, a cruelty which disgraces your 
 K 3 
 
398 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 aunt, and will destroy you." — *^ In- 
 deed," answered she, with an alarm which 
 surprised me, '* your generous nature 
 and sympathising temper have misled 
 you. My aunt is not cruel •* she thinks 
 I want a discipline to fit me for the world 
 and alow condition of fortune. Perhaps 
 she judges right. In the mean time, I 
 would not, on any account, give her 
 room to imagine that I am discontented 
 or ungrateful for the shelter she affords 
 my helpless youth. But I must leave 
 you," added she, whilst her eyes swam 
 in tears. " I have walked an hour, and 
 my aunt likes to see me exact." You 
 w^ill believe that this short interview was 
 not the exact preparation I needed for 
 the scene I witnessed at dinner. Her 
 aunt actually sent her from table with 
 the soup and beef, neither of which she 
 had tasted, because she had not done her 
 allotted task. God, I hope, will forgive 
 me for the thought that half choaked 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. IQQ 
 
 me, and which would have finally choak- 
 ed Miss Lucretia, had it been successfuh 
 I was so angry with Lady Maclairn, that 
 I believe she perceived it; for nothing 
 escapes her observation. After dinner 
 we were by ourselves ; and, in the most 
 unqualified terms, I noticed Miss Flint's 
 want of humanity and good manners to 
 va girl wliom she was bound to treat as a 
 daughter. ** I am astonished at your 
 forbearance," added I; "for these in- 
 stances of her unfeeling temper put me 
 into a fever." — " You are mistaken," an- 
 swered she with seriousness, *' if you 
 suppose I suffer the less for being patient. 
 I am as sensible as you can be of the im- 
 proper treatment Miss Howard has to 
 support : but I know I am more effec- 
 tually serving her by being silent, than 
 I could be by opposing her aunt. You 
 know not this woman so w^ell as I do ; 
 nor the necessity which forces me to 
 witness her harshness and severity to 
 k4 
 
SOO XADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 this sweet and innocent girl. I must be 
 passive, Miss Covvley. Yet there is a 
 fault in Mary. She has been taught to 
 dread Miss Flint. She is too much un- 
 der the impressions given to her mind 
 when with her uncle, to perceive that 
 there is in Lucretia's temper a jealousy in 
 regard to the aifections of those about 
 her. With less timidity, and more ap- 
 parent contentment, she would remove 
 from her aunt's mind the suspicion which 
 interposes between her niece and every 
 act of kindness her natural generosity 
 would prompt. She believes Mary de- 
 tests her." —^' Good Heaven!" cried I, 
 *^ she must so believe, for her conscience 
 accuses her of deserving to be hated I— 
 But, you say, Mary has been tauglit to 
 dread this aunt. Are Miss Flint's tender 
 mercies calculated to rectify her opinions? 
 And would you wish to see a girl at her 
 ag^ practise an address which would 
 contaminate the rectitude of a mind at 
 
THE TICTIM OF VILLANT. 201 
 
 ayiy age, in order to gain favour, and to 
 sleep and eat in peace ? I should see this 
 girl trampled upon without pity, were I 
 to see her for one moment smile and lick 
 the hand which oppresses her!" — " Ah, 
 my dear Miss Cowley," replied the agi- 
 tated Lady Maclairn, '^ in this sentiment 
 are contained the genuine feelings of 
 nature, and the language of an untried 
 spirit. May you never know the pres- 
 sure of those circumstances in life which 
 leave the principle vigorous, and fetter 
 down the power of exerting it!" 
 
 Miss Howard entered the room. Her 
 eyes v/ere red with weeping. Slie hrought 
 Miss Flint's request thar we Vv'oiild take 
 our tea in her apartment-. In the liii- 
 mour I" was in, I would as soon have pair! 
 a visit to a felon in Newgate ! I sent my 
 negative, and left the room abruptly. 
 You will perceive that your Rachel 
 Cowley had lost sight of wisdom. Tell 
 ine not, Lucy, that I am an enthusiast : 
 K. 5 
 
202 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 I will maintain, to my dying day, that 
 there is language which hypocrisy can 
 never speak. Lady Maclairn is a Fla- 
 mall! not one line in her face corre- 
 sponded with a feeling of mine. I told 
 my tale to Mrs. Allen. — What a contrast ! 
 The glow of indignation, the look of 
 pity, with which she listened to my 
 story, made me thankful that a slight 
 cold had kept her in her room at the 
 dining hour. 
 
 I had scarcely recovered my sangfroid 
 before Lady Maclairn, with a counte- 
 nance as placid and gentle as the pleased 
 infant's, entered to chat, and enquire 
 about the rebel tooth which had teazed 
 Mrs. Allen ; and, with a calm and easy 
 good humour, she asked my permission 
 for Sir Murdock's visit. " I am going," 
 added she, smiling, ^' to bring Miss 
 Flint into good humour ; and if I should 
 be so fortunate as to succeed, Mary shaJl 
 have a holiday and walk with you.'^ I 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 203 
 
 could only bow: but in spite of nature 
 this woman subdued me ; for she checked 
 a sigh that I could not resist, and left 
 me, to send in my guest. Sir Murdock 
 finding I was ** at home," joined me ; and, 
 to smooth my own ruffled features, and 
 gratify him, I went to the harp. I have 
 however, prescribed for myself as well 
 as my patient; the penseroso in music 
 having more than once betrayed him into 
 tears and myself into sadness, by sounds 
 which came 
 
 . '' o'er his ear like the sweet south 
 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets/* 
 
 Two or three songs of Horace's are 
 now locked up ; and the baronet is con- 
 tented with being roused to cheerfulness 
 by Scotch ballads. 
 
 Let me know in your next letter how 
 many months Rachel Cowley has been 
 at Tarefield. Mrs. Allen's calendar says 
 k6 
 
^04 LADY II AC. LA I RN, 
 
 not more than one — can this be true ? 
 Poor Horace! how tedious must be to 
 him the account of time if he computes 
 it as I do ! How many precious hours 
 which Providence has given us, have been, 
 and will be still lost to the account of 
 happiness 1 — A happiness, Lucy, which 
 Avould not have interfered with a single 
 duty, nor invaded on the rights of a 
 single human being! — Good night! 
 
 Well, I will be good, and endeavour to 
 be patient. I will eat, and drink, and 
 sleep, and forget not only my own cares, 
 but cease to feel and be angry at the 
 sight of oppressed innocence. I will 
 grow fat, and say with Miss Flint and 
 her tribe, '* What ! are not the poor and 
 friendless made for our use?" I will do 
 any thing rather than grieve my Lucy ; 
 but you have, my dear girl, your whims 
 and crotchets to correct, as well as I my 
 petulancies and opinions to govern. 
 
THE VICTIM or VILLANY. 205 
 
 What has given you the notion that I am 
 starved at Tarefield ? Please to under- 
 stand that Miss Fhnt prides herself on 
 the goodness and abundance of her table; 
 and although she has not yet acquired a 
 relish for a dinner of herbs seasoned by 
 love and peace, she has an excellent 
 appetite for the stalled ox. Consequently, 
 as the song says, 
 
 *' Each day has the spit and the pot, 
 With plenty of pudding and pie/* 
 
 Therefore be assured, that if to ^' pine 
 all the day is my lot," it is not because I 
 am hungry or ill fed. No, no : it is the 
 sovereign will of Miss Lucretia Flint, 
 that there should be no want of any 
 thing at Tarefield but contentment ; and 
 as she can live without it, why should 
 not others ? 
 
 ' Yesterday morning Mvs. ^llen and 
 myself, escorted by the baronet, encoun- 
 tered Malcolm in our lamble before 
 
20^ 
 
 breakfast. He was in rustic attire, and 
 had a scythe slung on his shoulder. He 
 joined us with a face glowing with health 
 and exercise; and with the utmost cheer- 
 fulness accosting us, he said he had been 
 working two hours in the meadow. " It 
 is not remote," added he, " and if you 
 love nature's perfumes, Miss Cowley, I 
 advise you to lengthen your walk. You 
 will find the poets need not the aid of 
 fiction to heighten their description of a 
 hay-Jidd, whatever they may do in de- 
 scribing hay-makers. Were I poetically 
 decorated, I would offer you my arm, 
 
 but in this trim." 1 interrupted him 
 
 by bidding him lead the way, and be 
 content without rivaling a birth-night 
 beau. 
 
 We soon reached the field, in which 
 were, with a number of people at work, 
 the proprietor, farmer Wiliion, a neat 
 comely looking man, and Captain Perci- 
 val Flint. They advanced to meet us; 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 207 
 
 but I perceived an instantaneous change 
 in the baronet's countenance, and I 
 thought the sahitation between the cap- 
 tain and him more ceremonies than cor- 
 dial. Sir Murdock, however, introduced 
 him to us ; and then, with a forced smile, 
 he asked him why he had so long desert- 
 ed the Hall. The captain said he was 
 sorry he had understood the family to 
 be too much engaged to admit intruders, 
 as it had prevented his visit of congratu- 
 lation on his return home ; and that he 
 had himself been on an excursion for 
 some time since that period. Sir Mur- 
 dock's brow cleared, he gave his hand, — 
 " You must be more neighbourly," said 
 he,*'andhelp us to reconcile the retirement 
 of this village to these ladies." He bowed, 
 and I began to talk of Miss Howard. 
 1 finished my panegyric with an assumed 
 complaint of her idleness, and begged he 
 would come to the hall, were it for no 
 Other purpose than to exert his authority 
 
208 LADY MACLAIRIST, 
 
 and oblige her to walk out. ** She used 
 to be fond of walking," replied he pen- 
 sively; '' but the want of a companion 
 of her own age, has, I fear, depressed her 
 spirits and activity." — '' Probably," an- 
 swered I ; ^' but only second me and I 
 will engage she shall forget cross- 
 stitch and meditation in a month." He 
 smiled, whilst a deep sigh escaped him» 
 I know your reverence for a black coat^ 
 Lucy, and this predilection will not, with 
 you, be disgraced by a prudish"^prej udice 
 against a red coat. With me a bare suit 
 of regimentals, unspotted by the wearer's 
 conduct, and unsullied by time and inat- 
 tention, are credentials I must respect. 
 The neatness of this veteran son of Mars,. 
 marked with me th(5 gentleman; and I 
 lost no time in my observations. He is 
 even now too fair for a hero ; but the 
 fortune of war has indented a scar over 
 his left eye-brow, which gives manliness, 
 if not iJignity, to his countenance ; for it 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 20.9 
 
 certain!}^ lessens the effects of a mild ex- 
 pression, and apparent want of health, 
 by no means corresponding with a mili- 
 tary man: a wooden leg. however, it 
 nmst be allowed, does, and the captain's 
 fame as a soldier has reached the village, 
 where he is regarded with admiration and 
 respect : but his manners are so placid 
 and gentle, that I could not help fancy- 
 ing a cross and a rosary would have con- 
 verted his portrait into the interesting 
 and war- subdued hermit. So leaving you 
 to finish this sketch, either as an anchorite, 
 or a half-pay captain of marines, I shall 
 continue to inform you of the impression 
 v/hich his past interviev/ with me has 
 left. We were such good friends before 
 we parted that I ventured to tell him, 
 that the sight of a military beau was a 
 phenomenon which had not entered into 
 my calculation of the pleasures to be 
 found at Tarefield, and that his appear- 
 ance had put my prudence and discretion 
 
210 LADY MACLAIIIN, 
 
 quite off their guard, insomuch, that I 
 dared to make an assignation Avith him 
 for the evening. **You cannot, as a 
 soldier, "added I, *' refuse my challenge; 
 but I warn you I shall bring into the 
 iield a second, in the person of JMary 
 Howard." He laughed, and replied with 
 gaiety and gallantry, that he accepted 
 ray terms, although the time had been, 
 when he" should have conditioned for 
 others ; but that I might depend on his 
 punctuality. 
 
 On our return home I mentioned this 
 arrangement to my companions. Sir Mur- 
 dock, deHghted with his morning walk, 
 said he would be of the evening party ; 
 but instantly recollecting the difficulty 
 of my engagement, he asked me, by 
 what stratagem I intended to free the 
 poor captive Mary from her cage. I 
 was not quite prepared with an answer to 
 this question; and could only reply^ 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 211 
 
 that I trusted to fortune and my own 
 ingenuity for success. 
 
 The gaiety of the baronet amply in- 
 demnified Lady Maclairn for having 
 waited for her breakfast. Slie was treat- 
 ed with the detail of our walk and with 
 quotations from Thompson's seasons, -^ 
 and with the contentedness of the hour, 
 and a good appetite, he rallied me on my 
 advances to the captain, teUing his wife 
 of the appointed rendezvous, and of my 
 plot to reach Captain Flint's heart by 
 means of his niece. Would you could 
 see Lady Maclairn in moments like these! 
 Why have I not Ithwriel's spear? For 
 nothing less potent can reach the genu- 
 ine features of this woman's mind ! This 
 morning, for example, she was ingenuous 
 and unconstrained, her sweet eyes con- 
 templating with delight the cheerfulness 
 of Sir Murdock, when in a moment I saw 
 her countenance change, and her eyes 
 cast downwards, from the effects of these 
 
2 IS LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 words : *' My Harriot, you must be of 
 our party ; you must intercede for poor 
 Mary." — '* You know it is not in my 
 power," answered she, with evident dis- 
 tress. Sir Murdoch's gaiety sunk in an 
 instant; but I interposed my influence, 
 and witli assumed spirits said, I would 
 trust to no one for the deliverance of 
 Mary but myself; and that I had already 
 formed my plan of action. Do you not 
 think Lady Maclairn is some what obhged 
 to her guest for these timely helps ? I 
 suspect she feels her obligations of this 
 sort sometimes too sensibly. 
 
 But to return from this digression. I 
 need not tell you that from the first hour 
 I entered •into this house, I took care to 
 mark with a decided precision, my abso- 
 lute independence, in respect to Miss 
 Flint's v/ill and pleasure. In every com- 
 pliance, in every act, J have shewn her, 
 that I look to Sir Murdock and Lady 
 Maclairn as the regulators of my con- 
 
TMi: VICTIM OF VILLANY. 213 
 
 "duct, and as the heads of the house. 
 But I found it was necessary either to 
 declare open war with Miss Lucretia on 
 the occasion before me, or to try her la- 
 dyship's mode of bending to the despot. 
 The lesson was a new one, and I felt an 
 inclination to make an attempt in the 
 art of flattery. So prepared, I met Miss 
 Lucretia at dinner: fortunately she was 
 in a pleasant humour; and giving a gulp 
 to my pride, I praised her skill in carving, 
 and told her the story of poor Mrs. Prim- 
 rose's white satin gown, and the unlucky 
 . goose-carver's disgrace, in the best man- 
 ner. I succeeded ; and my next ma- 
 noevre was to overlook the poor girl who 
 silently sat beside me, patiently expect- 
 ing to have her empty plate supplied. 
 My unusual politeness was not lost, for 
 I also talked of Jamaica. Upon this 
 ground, I presume, she called foi a glass 
 of rum and water, 'Mialf and half," and 
 drank to all friends there. Even this y/tnz 
 
214 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 down my proud stomach in a glass of 
 wine, and I became so agremhh that she 
 invited me and the circle to drink tea in 
 her apartment. Our cheerful accept- 
 ance of her invitation was followed by a 
 recollection of her dress, which was not 
 en Ttgle^ and she left us to prepare the 
 silver tea-board, and to make her toilet. 
 I was delighted to find Sir Muraock had 
 enjoyed this scene: he told his T/f-e I 
 was a plotter, and bade her beware of 
 my Circean-arts. She smiled, and said I 
 needed no auxiliaries, otherwise she would 
 readily join my standard, seeing it was 
 my design to lead tyranny captive. 
 
 On entering Miss Flint's drawing- 
 room, I perceived that Mary had been 
 permitted to put on her Sunday muslin 
 gown ; and to her native charms and 
 holiday suit, her youthful fancy had given 
 the finish by placing some moss-roses iu 
 her bosom. She was seated in the re- 
 motest of the bow windows, >vlth a huge 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 215 
 
 mass of canvass before her, and was ply- 
 ing her needle with all dispatch to get 
 up the lost time. The endless roll of 
 carpethig was now displayed. Miss 
 Cowley coidd not but praise the design; 
 and she heard that three years would 
 finish the furniture of the room in cross- 
 stitch, without one comment that could 
 offend. Can you wonder that Mary was 
 allG\Vi ' to fqtch her bonnet, and to join 
 the walking ^party after tea? Will you 
 not rather wonder at my success in this 
 new trial of my talents } But between 
 ourselves, I begin to suspect that the art 
 of wheedling, is one of our natural pre- 
 rogatives. You cannot imagine with 
 what dexterity I employed my untried 
 weapons ! It was well they served me ; 
 for during the demurs and difficulties 
 Miss Flint opposed to my intreaties, I felt 
 my forbearance was like Acre's courage, 
 not indeed oozing out at my fingers' 
 ends, but with every breath I drew; and 
 
216 LADY MAGLAIRN, 
 
 had she not consented when she did, I 
 should have lost my hard- earned laurels. 
 You will not, however, fail in congratula- 
 ting me on my triumph over myself. 
 But mark me, Lucy, I mean not to twist 
 and turn at the orders of that prudence 
 which is so often practised for wisdom. 
 It is necessary for my purpose that Miss 
 Howard's friends should know more of 
 me before I can effectually oppose Miss 
 Flint's will; but when they do understand 
 that Rachel Cowley can no more live 
 under the same roof with an oppressed 
 orphan, than Miss Lucretia shelter one, 
 without feeding her spleen, and qualifying 
 her malice for the bread she bestows, 
 farev/ell wheedling and coaxing ! My 
 road will be plain, and if perchance I 
 encounter any of Miss Lucretia's 
 frowns in my way, I shall laugh at 
 them. 
 
 Tbis poor girl hangs on my spirits. 
 I will reserve for my next letter the ac- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY, 217 
 
 count of our evening walk. You will 
 lose nothing by my going to bed ; for 
 I am weary, and somewhat of your pe- 
 tulant 
 
 Rachel Cow let. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Miss Cowley to Miss Ilardcastk. 
 
 We found the party in the hay-field 
 augmented by all farmer Wilson's family, 
 namely, his wife, with a Mrs. and Miss 
 Heartley, their boarders and lodgers, to 
 whom Malcolm introduced us with an 
 eagerness of good- will and pleasure which 
 was flattering to me. The tender greet- 
 ings between those ladies and Mary, evi- 
 dently proved that I had communicated 
 more of joy and gladness than I had 
 foreseen, by my interference; and as this 
 was the case, I took my share of the 
 general satisfaction, which appeared like 
 the sky, cloudless. Mrs. Wlisou soou re- 
 
 VOL. I. t 
 
218 LADY 
 
 Stored us to order, by leading us to seats 
 under a haj-coqk, and began to distri- 
 bute amongst us a syllabub milked from 
 the cow, with some fruit and cakes. Sir 
 M urdock, who bad appeared placid^though 
 silent, suddenly turning to his son, de- 
 sired him to change seats with him. This 
 request was' indulged with alacrity, and 
 he placed his father next Mrs. Heartley. 
 *^ How often of late," said the poor ba- 
 ronet, suveying her with a melancholy 
 air, '* have I wished to have the oppor- 
 tunity of telling you, that Sir Murdock 
 Maclairn esteems and reverences you for 
 your unremitting kindnesses and consi- 
 deration for his Malcolm. Yet now 
 I am near you, language fails me ; I am 
 oppressed by my feelings. Recollections 
 too painful for me meet this hour of 
 peace and restored happiness.'* He took 
 her hand and burst into tears. Mrs. 
 Heartley, with much emotion and con- 
 fusion, said something of her hopes of 
 
THE VICTIM O'^ VILLANY. Sfg 
 
 being still favoured witli his good opi- 
 tiion, and of her satisfaction at seeing 
 her worthy neighhour. He caught the 
 las^t M'^rd of her incoherent speech. 
 *' Yes," replied he, *' I hope we shall be 
 neighbbui^s as well as friends ! My suf- 
 fering^^ are terminated. Witness this 
 hcitlr of peace ! Witness the mercy which 
 has sentme an angel of consolation '/'-— 
 lib gazed wildly on my face ; and sink- 
 ingjhis^head between his knees^and hands, 
 he murmured out '' Matilda 1 sainted, 
 blessed Matilda!" I w^as alarmed. — '^ It 
 will be momentary/ said the agitated 
 Malcolm, in a low voice, " be not 
 disturbed !" He was not mistaken, for in 
 a- fe^v minutes Sir Murdock's serenity 
 was restored ; and he asked' Miss Heart- 
 le}^, in a manner which marked that he 
 Irad no consciousness of his late disorder, 
 soin6' quest iorrs relative to her brother 
 wh'6 was iti the East- Indies. She re* 
 plied; and tht' baronet, with renewed 
 
220 LADY MACLAIRN, - 
 
 cheerfulness and an e^vpressive smile, 
 said, " And what excuse will you make 
 to * this dear brother,' when he knows 
 you have monopolized a heart which he 
 ought to share?" A deep blush was the 
 only answer to this question, which 
 awakened my curiosity. I was however 
 called from further observation by being 
 asked for a song ; but wiUing to make 
 the conversation more general, I allcdged 
 that I was too angry to sing ; and, with 
 assumed resentment, I reproached the 
 captain's want of discretion as well as 
 courage in bringing into the field so 
 many witnesses of my weakness, and so 
 many guards against his own. " You 
 wrong your gallant, by your suspicious, 
 Miss Cowley," answered Mrs. Heartley, 
 with ease and spirit. But what will he 
 answer to my reproaches ^ He has been 
 my slave these twenty years and more, 
 and yet had the audacity to conuceal this 
 assignation from me. I am indebted to 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 221 
 
 niy friend Mr. Malcolm for the intelli- 
 gence of my danger; and 1 now^ see it,'* 
 added she, laughing; *' yet, woman to 
 the last, I will maintain my rights to 
 him against youth and beauty/' — A cer- 
 tain mode of expression, with the correct 
 gaiety and ease of her manners, soon at- 
 tached me to this lady's side; and in 
 our walk home she apparently slackened 
 her pace, the more unnoticedly to con- 
 verse with me. — '* You will think me 
 very deficient in the rules of good breed- 
 ing,'' said she, when entering the road 
 to the hall, ^* on finding that I neglect 
 to pay you my respects at Sir Mur- 
 dock's house ; but I do not visit the 
 family. My avowed aflection and long 
 intimacy with Mrs. Howard, and my 
 still longer acquaintance with Captain 
 Flint, have laid me under indelible dis- 
 grace with Miss Flint. Lady Maclairn's 
 situation, and the circumstances of dis- 
 tress under which she has lived, have 
 L 3 
 
precluded all approaches to her of a per- 
 sonal kind. You will therefore, I trust, 
 accept of this apology for my not wait- 
 ing on you and your friend. Yet,'' 
 pontinued she, smiling, " you mi^st not 
 imagine me ^ womau too obscure fpr 
 Miss Flint's notice. In her zeal for her 
 neighbours' good behaviour, she has 
 thought proper to single me out a3 an 
 object: to be feared and shvmned by all 
 Riodest women. There is, however, ^'<?^n- 
 ,duct, Miss Cowley, that will refute ma- 
 I'lct and silence slander, Avithout calling 
 put either resentment or reproach. Alioe 
 is such as has done more than was need* 
 ful for ^my jus;tifi cation, for it has disap- 
 pointed aai angry woman in her purpose ; 
 and my meighbours have always judged 
 ■nxe according to that rule lof Christian 
 charity, * wiiich thimkcth no evil.' They 
 have also gone farthej than this pjt^oept 
 will justify, for I believe they think I 
 ixiust be goodf because Miss Flint hat^s 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. 2213 
 
 me. jVIalcolm's attachment to me arid 
 my children has also its share in keeping 
 alive Miss Flint's animosity. From a 
 child this young man has been regarded, 
 by myself and tlie family at large with 
 whom Lreside, as a cherished and favour- 
 ed guest. This circumstance has, I much 
 fear, been unfavourable to Miss Howard ; 
 it has certainly abridged her in her free- 
 dom. She is not permitted to visit her 
 uncle, because he lives under the same 
 roof with me; and she dares not speak 
 to either Alice or myself, when accident 
 throws her in our path, if she has a ser- 
 vant wnth her. My poor girl murmurs 
 at this refinement in cruelty, and strenu- 
 ously ])leads that I ought to inform 
 Captain Flint of this harsh prohibition; 
 but I forbear, in the hopes that time wall ■ 
 relax Miss Lucretia's heart ; and in the 
 interim Mr. Maclairn favours the girls 
 in writing. ^XFiss Howard's accourrt of- "^ 
 Miss Cowley produced the wish to see 
 l4 
 
S24 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 her," added she smiling. " This we have 
 effected ; and I have only now to add, 
 that if in your seclusion from the world 
 you should feel disposed to relieve the 
 dull monotony of your hours by a walk 
 to us, we shall be gratified. — I was for- 
 merly acquainted with your friend Coun- 
 sellor Stead man. When you write to 
 to him, ask him whether he has forgotten 
 Henry Heartley, and whether he thinks 
 his widow a proper associate for you." 
 I expressed my confidence in her Avorth. 
 Shesmi led, and thanked me. " But, ad- 
 ded she, ** it is necessary you should 
 know the woman who, at my age and with 
 my appearance, cautions you to keep, 
 as a secret, from Miss Flint, even the 
 harmless recreation of this evening. 
 Our meeting Mary would not be al- 
 lowed to be accidental on her part, and 
 I doubt she is severely treated by her 
 aunt. She conceals from her friend 
 Alice every Instance of this kind, but 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 225 
 
 Alalcolm is not so reserved with us, and 
 yve are miserable on her account. The 
 captain hopes to soften his sister's heart 
 to a sense of justice at least, and has 
 given up the comfort and prop of his 
 life to the fallacious expectation that 
 Miss Flint will love and provide for the 
 future support of this poor orphan. I 
 did not in the first instance oppose his 
 plan of conciliation. His sister offered to 
 take her; and he yielded her up to her 
 promises of being her friend and pro- 
 tector; but if he knew Miss Howard'a 
 situation she would not remain a hour at 
 Tarefield-hall. Poor Mary understands 
 this perfectly ; and with an heroism which 
 does her credit, suffers without com- 
 plaint, rather than return to be a burden 
 on her uncle. I need not recommend to 
 your favour," continued she, ** this in- 
 nocent and helpless girl. We are told 
 that you pity her, but be cautious in 
 what you say to her uncle. His mind 
 l5 
 
2215 LAX>Y MACX-AIRtsf, 
 
 lias been broken down by sorrow and 
 the injuries of fortune, his\ feelings 
 are become irritable, and his spirit will 
 not brook further insult Perhaps this 
 gentle creature may fimd her aunt has a 
 heart. Time must be allowed her to 
 work a change in so obdurate a mind; 
 it is her wish to make the trial complete ; 
 but a year and more has been lost already 
 in the attempt, aad I have my doubts of 
 lier ever being easy or happy where she 
 is." — -^^ Mrs, Allen and myself,'' observed 
 I, " were much struck by the mode in 
 which this young and amiable creature 
 was treated, even before we had been a 
 day at Tarefield; but Miss Fl'mt soon 
 fixpbiined to me her system, and left me 
 nothing for wonder, though sufficient for 
 abhorrence. But, my clear Mrs. Heart- 
 ley, do me the favour, if it be possible, to 
 explain to me Lady Madairn's conda^t. 
 I wish to esteem her. Wherefore is it, 
 Ihat with a temper so mild aad gentle^ 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 227 
 
 I see her passively yielding up her digniy 
 in her own house, and witnessing in si- 
 lence her sister s treatment of an iviioP- 
 ftnding girl, wlio has a just claim e\'eil 
 upon her ladyship for protection."-^ 
 *' Poor Lady Maclairn," replied she, " is 
 inured to suffering. She knows she can 
 effect nothing, but by an abject submis- 
 sion to Miss Flint. Many causes have 
 contributed to break down her spirits ; 
 but none have lessened her principles 
 of virtue: she is an estimable woman, 
 and much to be pitied.*'— We were inter- 
 rupted by Mary's running towards us tol 
 take leave of Mrs. Heartley. She thre\V 
 her arms around her neck, and, fondly 
 kissing her, said, '' Now you will believe 
 that I am comfortable ! One day in £t - 
 jfnonth like this would be happiness ! Yoit 
 see I have now a dear, kind friend !"— - 
 Our general adieux followed ; but again 
 Malcolm deserted us for the plea of busi- 
 *^s6 ^ Wilson s. 
 
 1.6 
 
228 LADT MACLAIRK, 
 
 Whether it was owing to my dose of 
 flattery, or to the rum bottle, I will not 
 decide; but certain it is, that Miss Lu- 
 cretia received us with good-humour. 
 She was more than commonly loqua- 
 cious; and I, with the patience of a Lady 
 Maclairn, listened to the history of her 
 sprained knee, which had spoiled her for 
 a walker. This disastrous subject gave 
 place to her inviting me to take an airing 
 with her the following morning, when 
 she engaged to shew me a very " pretty 
 country." But this was nothing, fori was 
 even proof against a long story in which 
 her dear brother Philip was the hero, and 
 I was led to approve of his conduct by a 
 direct interrogation. " Was not his be- 
 haviour noble ?"— I forgot the tale, but 
 I recollect he saved a young woman's 
 being thrown from her horse. I had, 
 however, my measures to keep, and we 
 retired for the night in perfect good^ 
 humour. What a simpleton I have been 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAlMY. 229 
 
 in not at first beginning to manage this 
 woman by my address! She would fetch 
 and carry like a spaniel weres^he but ilat- 
 tered. But more of this hereafter. You 
 must know more of Mrs. Hcartley and 
 her fair daughter Alice. Mrs. Heartley 
 is more indebted to an air of fashion 
 and dignity, for the attractions of her 
 person, than either to her features or 
 shape. Her face would be called homely 
 were it not lighted up by her dark and 
 expressive eyes; and although I believe 
 she is defective in her shape, she moves 
 with grace, and is what you would dis- 
 tinguish by the title of an '^ elegant 
 woman." Her daughter would at once 
 be thought by the admirers of half- 
 starved, pale-faced beauties, as too nearly 
 approaching to the dairy maid ; for con- 
 tentment and health have given Ahce an 
 ernhon point beyond the prescribed rules 
 of fashion. She is a clear brunette, and 
 her damask cheek lias a rouge which 
 
230 LADY MACLAIflN"^ 
 
 thousands vainly strive to imitate. A 
 pair of large hazel eyes give life and spirit 
 to her round and dimpled face, and wheii 
 she smiles (and Alice has yet to learn 
 that smiles and laughter are vulgar) she 
 is a perfect llehe ; and Mrs. Allen wished 
 Bun bury had seen her, as he would not 
 have omitted to give this laughter-loving 
 nymph in his charming group of rural 
 beauties. She tells me that I have not 
 been just to Alice: perhaps I have not; 
 and that I should have been more lavish 
 of my praise of this handsome girl, had 
 she not been by the side of Miss How* 
 ard. But again I pronounce this young 
 creature to be nature's master-piece! I 
 had not before seen her animated by* 
 pleasure or exercise, nor could I have . 
 believed her delicate features capable of 
 expressing the vivacity she discovered^ 
 She seemed to tread in air, and, whilst 
 ■with winning sfuiles and captivating 
 grace, ske drew around her the people 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 231 
 
 who were at work, the greater part of 
 M'hom she called by their names, I could 
 not but apply to this innocent enchant- 
 ress the hnes given to the charms of the 
 mischief-making Annida. 
 
 " In wavy ringlets falls her beautious hair. 
 That catch new graces from the sportive air : 
 Declin'd on earth, her modest look denies 
 To shew the starry lustre of her eyes : 
 O'er her fair face a rosy bloom is spread. 
 And stains her ivory neck with lovely red : 
 Soft breathing sweets her opening lips disclose^ 
 The native odours of the budding rose." 
 
 I could not forbear uttering this rhap^ 
 sody to the captain as he stood near me, 
 whilst Mary was receiving the honest 
 admiration of her humble friends. He 
 smiled, but a sigh succeeded. '* She is 
 fair and lovely," said he with emotion, 
 **and as good as she is fair, and as inno^ 
 cent as she is lovely ; — but so was her 
 iDotber, Miss Cowley; yet she found thi6 
 
232 LADY MACLAIRNy 
 
 Avorld a hard pilgrimage!" He turned 
 
 away from me, and joined his niece. I 
 
 •will now bid you farewell. — Mrs. Allen 
 
 joins in my blessings for your repose. 
 
 — Yours, 
 
 Rachel Cowley* 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 From the same to the same. 
 Your letter of Thursday, my dear 
 Lucy, is in my hands twenty-four hours 
 sooner than I expected it ; but good 
 news cannot travel too fast, and I sit 
 down as blithe as a bird to thank you for 
 the contents of an epistle which has re* 
 newed my spirits, and which will render 
 me the " best creature m the world with 
 Miss Lucretia;" for whose summons I 
 am prepared in order to take an airing, 
 and which allows me only time at present 
 to tell you, that I am happy to find yoa 
 do not any longer think your compliance 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 233 
 
 with your brother's request, is indispen- 
 sible on the ground of duty. Why should 
 he not be indulged with the sight of my 
 gossiping letters from hence ? Erase, 
 expunge what you please ; but gratify 
 him with the details which you find 
 amuse yourself. Let him see that his 
 sister contrives to make in this dull por- 
 tion of her life, those exertions which 
 prevent her mind from stagnating. Do 
 not think you err by deviating from the 
 letter of your father's harsh law, whilst 
 you so carefully adhere tot\\t spirit of it, 
 I would no more tempt my Lucy to sin, 
 than I would sin myself. Horace? knows 
 that I am not a spiritless, whining, love- 
 sick girl ; but he well knows M'hat I have 
 to sustain in my separation from you, 
 and in my removal from Heathcot. Have 
 no fears, I beseech you, as to the final 
 event of such an attachment as the one 
 which binds me to Horace Hardcaslle. 
 When he ceases, fo be worthy of my 
 
^54 LADr MACLAIRN, 
 
 esteem and affection, I shall despise him ; 
 and when I forget myself, he will despise 
 me. Neither your father's -scruples, nor 
 the maxims of the world will lesson the 
 ties which unite our hearts ; of this be 
 
 assured. 1 am summoned, the coach 
 
 drives up. 
 
 I^ETTER IX, 
 
 In continuation. 
 
 It wa^s not to the fault of the w^eather, 
 my dear Lucy, that Miss Flint could at- 
 tribute her return home with a head-ach; 
 nor do I attribute my fatigue to the 
 morning airing ; but I begin to find out 
 that I am not yet quite proof against 
 provocations: read, and judge. The 
 mistress of the vehicle with much cheer- 
 fulness received me into it, and observed 
 most graciously, that it was time for Miss 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. £35 
 
 Cowley " to see a little about her." In 
 consequence of this uiteution she gave 
 the servant liis directions, and we pro- 
 ceeded not more than a mile, before 
 '* Miss Cowley" discovered that Tarefield- 
 liall had not been more unfortunate m 
 the lack of taste in its first projector, 
 than it has been since in its lack of 
 cheerfulness and contentment.; for gra- 
 dually descending from the heath, we 
 came in view of the village, and a coun- 
 try, by no means unpictures que. My at- 
 tention to the valley in sight, through 
 which meanders a branch of the river 
 War, was interrupted by our approach 
 towards a large house^ which still wore 
 the relics of Gothic architecture, and 
 past magnificence. Upon enquiry, I 
 learned tliat it was still called the '* Ab- 
 bey," and was the residence of ** one 
 JVilsoii, a farmer''—'' What a striking 
 monument it offers," observed I, surveying 
 the venerable mansion, " of the lapse of 
 
^36 LADY MACLAIRX, 
 
 time, and the vanity of human greatness!" 
 — " Yes/' replied Miss Flint, '' it is 
 enough to make one «ick of this M^orld, 
 to see such a house in the possession of 
 an upstart^ Avho \vouId have had his post 
 in the stahles had one of the ^' Tngrams" 
 still heen its master. But this family is 
 happily extinct. Happilij, I say, for I 
 am certain they could not rest in their 
 graves, if they knew who lorded in the 
 Abbey at this day! But it is to be hoped 
 these people will have their turn ! I have 
 heard they got this estate in a shameful 
 manner ! Wilson's uncle I believe was 
 an arrant rogue, and the beggar on 
 horseback is examplified in his heir." 
 This subject having considerably discom- 
 posed the placid features of my compa- 
 nion, I prudeutly dropped it; and she, 
 pulling the check-string, bade the driver 
 stop at Mrs. Snughead's gate. 
 
 It was not difficult to discover the 
 ease and opulence of the rector of Tare* 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 9,37 
 
 field parish, from a view of his neat and 
 genteel abode, which fronts the road, 
 and has a flower-garden, with giavel 
 walks before it. We stopped at the gate; 
 the servant was ordered to go the kitchen 
 way, for enquiries respecting the lady's 
 health. ^' I shall not go in," said Miss 
 Flint, ^' for we should spoil the gravel, and 
 give Mrs. Snughead a fever- tit for the day 
 at least; besides, she would not amnse us , 
 with her tiresome details of nervous fits, 
 and sleepless nights." A niaid-servant 
 from the front door appeared, her feet 
 shod with two flat pieces of board, who, 
 shuffling to the carriage, brought her. 
 lady's compliments, and hoped that we 
 would enter the house. '*Not now, Mar- 
 tha," answered Miss Fhnt. ''When do 
 you expect your master home?" — '* Ma- 
 dam has had a letter this morning," re- 
 plied the girl" and the clerk is to tell the 
 young i?,( iitlcman, that Mr. Snughead 
 will do duly on Sunday himself "—'' Well 
 
238 LADY MACLAIRjS^, 
 
 that is good news, Martha," observed 
 Miss Flint, " and I hope your mistress 
 is in spirits." *' Poor lady !" ans-wered the 
 girl in a tone of pity, " she has ttever 
 held up her head since her poor son Mr. 
 Banks left us ; she is quite broken down, 
 Madam ! I wish you would have the 
 goodness to see her. The kitchen is 
 quite in order," added she, glancing her 
 eyes on the untrod path to the house. 
 *^ Poor soul!" said Miss Flint, " I could 
 not comfort her, Martha, and I am press- 
 ed for time. Give my love to her. Drive 
 on, William."Thus concluded the J^riendli/ 
 call. ** You have had a good escape," 
 observed she, settling her large person 
 more at ease. "We should have been 
 detained an hour with Mrs. Snughead's 
 lamentations about her son. I pity her 
 husband most sincerely, for he has for 
 twelve years and more had the plague of 
 a wife, who is hourly dying, if you credit 
 her, and whose death he di'eads ; for her 
 
THE VICTIM OP VILLANY. 23^ 
 
 jointure of five hundred pounds per an- 
 num, pays for her board, though in my 
 opinion, not for his life of mortification 
 and continual fear. When I see such 
 marriages as these," continued she with 
 an air of self-complacency, ** I bless my 
 good fortune in having escaped matrimo- 
 ny; not thai I think there are none happy 
 but those who are unshackled, for I am 
 persuaded there are many hap})j match- 
 es-; and that a young woman cannot do 
 more prudently, than to secure to herself 
 an honourable protection, and a worthy 
 man. When I was young, I was too 
 useful to my poor father to think of 
 changing my condition. I was my fa- 
 tlier's only comfort during a period of 
 his life rendered miserable by the con- 
 duct and ingratitude of his cliildrcn; par- 
 ticularly his favourite daughter, Mrs. 
 Howard, whom he brought up with too 
 much fondness and indulgence. His 
 second marriage was an absurdity; and 
 
240 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 he soon found lliat it added little to his 
 domestic enjoyments. It did not re- 
 quire the spirit of Avitchcraft, for me to 
 foresee what did result from so un- 
 equal an union as my father's with this 
 young bride ; but I could not desert my 
 post even then with satisfaction to myself. 
 The mother-in-law was a mere child in 
 tlie knowledge proper for the mistress of 
 a family ; and I soon discovered, that my 
 father had only added to my cares by 
 placing at his table an indolent woman, 
 who only married him in order to live 
 at her ease. However, I will be just to 
 Lady Maclairn; as my father's wife, she 
 conducted herself with discretion and 
 modesty, and I have in return been her 
 constant friend. 
 
 Her marriage with Sir Murdock was a 
 foolish business ! Mr. Flamall strongly 
 opposed it; but Hr riot was always ro- 
 mantic ! He predicted thtn, that the 
 baronet would be crazy j and Avell he 
 
rHE VICTIM OF VILLANr. 241 
 
 tnight, for he bad symptoms of insanity 
 which no one could overlook. But a 
 title, though without a groat, flattered 
 Mrs. Flint's vanity, and I had only to 
 reconcile matters, and to think of pre- 
 venting the evils of this connection as it 
 related to my dear Philip's security. You 
 may judge, Miss Cowley," continued 
 she with augmenting seriousness,'' of my 
 affection for a brother, whom, from the 
 hour of his birth, I considered as con- 
 signed in a peculiar manner to my guar* 
 dianship and care. His mother's second 
 marriage enforced these duties on my 
 heart ; to shelter him, I was determined 
 to offer my house to Lady Maclairn as 
 a residence at once honourable and pru- 
 dent for her. Thus has it happened, that 
 I have had for years a hmatic under my 
 roof. Besides this, I boarded the whole 
 family at so moderate a sum, that with a 
 better regulated economy, Lady Mac- 
 lairn might have saved something for 
 
 VOL. I, M 
 
242 
 
 Malcolm^s exigencies, for Philip was 
 entirely my charge ; but I cannot ima- 
 gine how she manages her purse, it is 
 never beforehand, and I doubt, IVIalcolm 
 will take care to prevent all accumula- 
 tions. Idleness at his age is a melancho- 
 ly prospect ! I wish Harriot may not 
 live to repent of her confidence in this 
 young man. But now I am on the sub- 
 ject of my family, I will add a few words 
 in explanation of my conduct, as it re- 
 lates to another object of my care. Were 
 you, Miss Cowley, acquainted with all 
 the insults and injuries I have sustained 
 from Mary Howard's parents, you would 
 only wonder to find her under my roof. 
 But when I received her, to relieve my 
 brother Percival from a burden he could 
 ill sustain, I meant not to train her up 
 to any expectations but such as resulted 
 from her mother's imprudence. She it 
 was who entailed poverty on her child ; 
 and I shall fulfil my duty, in teaching 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 243 
 
 her to be useful and industrious ; lessons 
 she never would have learned but for 
 me. I know she has complained to you 
 of my severity, as she and her friends 
 
 call my vigilance'' ** Never, INIadam/' 
 
 said I, interrupting her, ^^ your plan of 
 conduct needed no explanation with me; 
 and Miss Howard neither directly nor 
 indirectly has accused you of doing 
 wrong in my presence." — '^Well," an- 
 swered she, with great M^armth, ^'on this 
 point I am perfectly at my ease, provid- 
 ed she tells you at the same time, that 
 her parents brought my dear father with 
 .sorrow to his grave, and that my peace 
 and happiness were destroyed by their 
 perfidy." She spoke, and looked so like 
 a fury, my dear Lucy, that I Was abso- 
 lutely silenced by dismay. *' But let us 
 change this topic," continued she, soften- 
 ing her voice, *' for one more agreeable 
 to you, and less painful to myself. I 
 think I need not say to Miss Cowley, 
 
^44 LADY -MACLAIRK, 
 
 that I acceded \vitli joy to my dear bro- 
 ther's prospects of an alliance with you. 
 I musthowev'cr observe that your worthy 
 father, not only evinced his aflection 
 for you in his choice of Philip, but the 
 prudence of a man solicitous for the 
 prosperity of a rising family. On the 
 score of merit and conduct, Philip needs 
 not fear any competitor for your favour. 
 His fortune will be ample and solid, for 
 I consider myself as only his steward. 
 Mr. Flamall's proposal of your residing 
 at the hall, was a matter I heartily con- 
 curred in ; and in order to give Lady 
 Maclairn more consequence in a family 
 you have honoured by your presence, and 
 to which you will belong, I resigned 
 my authority in it, and became, like 
 yourself, a boarder; paying at the rate 
 of six hundred pounds per annum for the 
 accommodations of myself and servants." 
 — I was going to speak, in order to spare 
 her any further display of her consum- 
 
 I 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA NY. 243 
 
 mate prudence, but she proceeded. — 
 *' I have said nothing of the person of 
 your 'intended,'' said she, with a most 
 gracious smile. " This is his picture 
 dra^n Avhen he was about eighteen." 
 She presented me a miniature of the 
 young man, which to say the truth was 
 strikingly handsome. '' Nature has been 
 liberal to your favourite," observed I, ex- 
 amining the portrait. ** He is much im- 
 proved in his person," said she with 
 eagerness, ** since that age. There is 
 not in England a finer made man ! 
 I am certain you will allow this when 
 you see him." — '' I hope to be disposed 
 to render justice to Mr. Flint's merit iji 
 every point," answered I, *'for this con- 
 sideration he has a right which he may 
 claim ; but, my dear Madam, I conceiv- 
 ' ed, that you, as well as the rest of Mr. 
 Flint's family, understood that I had 
 declined the conditions of my father's 
 will; I was explicit with Sir Murdock* 
 M 3 
 
f46 LADY MAC LAI UN, 
 
 Mr. Flamall, and consequently your ne- 
 phew, know by this time, that Rachel 
 Cowley is not to be transferred like her 
 father's negroes from one master to ano- 
 ther. I have no resentment against Mr. 
 Flint. His pretensions to me are too 
 ridiculous for a serious examination; and 
 if he have a just title to the character he 
 bears, he will scorn, as I do, an inter- 
 ference so offensive to his honour, and 
 so humiliating to his self-love. I could 
 say more on this subject," added I with 
 spirit, '* but it is unnecessary ; and I 
 request I may be spared from renewing 
 it. Lady IMaclairn has avoided it; and 
 you, Madam, when you know more of 
 me, will give me credit for a frankness 
 in my manner of treating it, which is as 
 decisive ?i^ it is firm. Mr. Flamall is my 
 scorn, and I wish by hearing nothing 
 more o^ his nephew, to respect Mr. Philip 
 Flint as your brother, and Lady Mac- 
 lairn's son. When I marry, it will not 
 
THE VICTIM OF VJLLANY. 247 
 
 be a husband of IVlr. Flamairs appoint- 
 ing." The rising and deepening tints of 
 yUss Lucretia's fiery cheek, prepared 
 me for lier speech. *' I would advise 
 you, Miss Cowley, as a friend,'' said 
 she, ** to be cautious of provoking a man 
 of Mr. Flamall's character, by using a 
 language of this kind to him, whatever 
 may be your intention in regard to tlie 
 duty you owe to your deceased father's 
 will," — *'My father's will," exclaimed I, 
 *' will not be violated by my rejection of 
 Mr. Flamall's authority, which, in every 
 instance, I despise !" — ** It is because 
 you do not know him, I am ^very cer- 
 tain," answered she w^ith suppressed rage. 
 " You are mistaken, Madam," rephed I 
 M'ith firmness, " I do know Mr. Flamall. 
 It is himself, who from the false estimate 
 he has made of his talents, forgets it was 
 necessary for him to know his benefac- 
 tor's daughter, before he hazarded a 
 scheme which will end in his defeated 
 M 4 
 
$48 LADY MACLAIll>f, 
 
 ambition. My residence at Tarefiekl is 
 the prelude only of my designs, to shew 
 this man, that he can do no more than 
 be subservient to a Cowley : this I will 
 make him, and it may be he will ac- 
 knowledge this. / o?ily understood the 
 secret of teaching him to know his place 
 and duty ; my father assuredly did not.*' 
 •— " You astonish me,'' said she, " by 
 your violence and prejudice against Mr. 
 Flamall ; you even insinuate suspicions 
 against his honour." — " Honour T re- 
 peated I with a look which seemed to 
 silence his defender; ** the honour of Mr. 
 Flamall rannot suffer.'' The remainder 
 of our road was passed without a single 
 word being exchanged. She retired to 
 her own room, on arriving at the halL 
 At dinner, Mary said her aunt had got- 
 ten a head-ach and could eat nothing. 
 I suspect she drank the more, for before 
 supper the dear girl joined us, saying her 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. £19 
 
 aunt was in bed and asleep, liaving been 
 much fatigued, and out of spirits. 
 
 The evening was too inviting not to 
 tempt us out. Not a breeze ruffled its 
 serenity ; the moon shed her silver radi- 
 ance () er the tranquil scene. Mary, light 
 of heart, bounded before us like a sylph. 
 Sir Murdock spouted Ossian with enthu- 
 siastic delight. Your Rachel's spirits 
 had been disturbed, and to compose 
 themselves they made an excursion — no 
 matter where, — since they found re- 
 pose. Lady Maclairn and Mrs. Allen, 
 wisely judging that star-gazing and quot*^ 
 ing, might not suit them so well as walk- 
 ing, proceeded to meet the truant Mal- 
 colm, in which purpose they succeeded; 
 and we walked till a late hour. Amongst 
 the various conjectures which my inge- 
 nuity has suggested in my endeav^oursto 
 fathom the real character of Lady Mac- 
 lairn, I began to suspect that she hadi 
 some intention to circumvent her bro- 
 
 M 5 
 
^50 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 ther in his plans of securing my father's 
 property for his favourite. She has hi- 
 therto most dihgently adhered to the 
 conditions I exacted, rarely mentioning 
 even the name of her son Philip, whereas 
 she frequently descants with fondness 
 and eloquence on the merit and conduct 
 of her" dear Malcolm," " her prop," " her 
 boast." I had even infused into Mrs. 
 Allen's mind something of my own sus- 
 picions, when on our return to the house 
 after meeting with the young man, 
 chance gave to me a secret which has 
 quite overset this opinion of Lady Mac- 
 lairn's policy. Something which escaped 
 Mary, whose arm I had taken, in the 
 gaiety of her heart, produced from me 
 the question, " Is then Mr. Maclairn a 
 lover?" — *' Yes," replied she, "he has 
 courted Miss Heartley a long time." 
 *' Do Sir Murdock and his mother ap- 
 prove of his attachment?" " Oh dear,yes!'* 
 answered she, with innocent vivacity, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 2^1 
 
 " How should they do otherwise ? She is 
 one of the most amiable girls in the 
 world, as well as the most virtuous and 
 prudent of her sex. Besides, Malcolm 
 and Alice have loved each other from 
 their childhood, and they will never cease 
 to love." I was answered and satisfied. So 
 you see, Lucy, these freaks of fancy hap- 
 pen elsewhere as well as at Heathcot, I 
 think in another century parents niay 
 discover the force of sympathy, and will 
 think of some remedy for the mischief 
 it may do whilst their children are in the 
 cradle. It is a wretched business, when 
 poor unfortunate beings, whose wealth is 
 unequal, take it into their heads to yield 
 to the attraction of sympathy. It is still 
 worse, when the scale of fortune is empty 
 on both sides. Might not the now use- 
 less sash worn by children round their 
 waists, be usefully worn over their eyes 
 till they are properly mm^ried? I speak 
 only of those neglected children, who, 
 
 INI 6 
 
^5f lADT MACLAIRN, 
 
 left to nature's lessons, are so apt to re- 
 ceive impressions from beings as devoid 
 of instruction as themselves ; for I am 
 aware, that young people properly edu- 
 cated for the world they are to live in, 
 want no mufflers. They may be trusted 
 "with the use of their eyes ; or should it 
 happen that a beam of light dazzles them 
 for a moment, a coach-and-six, a dia- 
 mond necklace, or a sounding name, 
 will restore them to the true point of 
 vision. But I must be serious. What 
 pains and penalties, my Lucy, does the 
 folly of man give to the pilgrimage of 
 this life ! Not satisfied with the allotted 
 portion of trial deemed by Providence 
 for our benefity or to travel in a road 
 prepared by infinite goodness for our 
 feeble powers, we seem to be diligent in 
 obstructing it when smooth and level, 
 with thorns and briars of our own seek- 
 ing. Your good father, my Lucy, with 
 all his wisdom, dares not makq his chil- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV. 253 
 
 dren happy, — and, why not? Because Miss 
 Cowley ought to marry a man as rich as 
 herself. Where does Mr. Hardcastle find 
 this law? In a world he despises. — ''Is it 
 not late, my dear child," asks the sympa- 
 thizing, Mrs. Alien, looking compassion- 
 ately on my tell-tale eyes. It is time to 
 forget the world at least. 
 
 Yours, ever, 
 
 Rachel Cowl jet* 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 From the same to the same, 
 
 Unicnding dig7iitif^ Lucy, has been a 
 match for sullenness. I have conquered; 
 and Miss Flint has broken silence, and 
 held out the olive branch. But hold, it 
 was not that unbending dignity you may 
 suspect which produced peace, it was in 
 sober truth my folly which did the bu- 
 siness; for as she could not always look 
 
9.54> LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 grave when others laughed, slie forgot 
 her anger and laughed with the rest. As 
 I have measures to keep, I was in nowise 
 ungracious in my turn, and all discord 
 was buried by my reading to the collected 
 circle, the comedy you sent me. Before 
 Ave parted. Miss Flint mentioned her in- 
 tention of going to church the nex^ 
 morning, and I readily engaged to ac- 
 company her. You must have been sur- 
 prised, that I have not mentioned to you 
 our having been in a church since I have 
 been here, but the absence of the rector 
 had slackened Miss Flint's zeal, and the 
 baronet and his lady preferred their own 
 prayers to ]\Ir. Snughead's. IMrs. Allen 
 likes their form of devotion, and having a 
 hcad-ach, has remained quiet to profit from 
 Sir Murdock's sermon. A little of the 
 still fermenting leaven, as I suspect, in" 
 duced Miss Flint to disappoint my ex- 
 pectations of a ride with her niece; on my 
 enquiring for her, she said with a haughty 
 
THE VICTIM OF VTLLANY. ^55 
 
 air, that Mary preferred walking with 
 Warner, her woman. We soon reached 
 the church, and I followed my stately 
 conductress to a pew in the church, in 
 which was another equally distinguished 
 by its size and decorations of lining and 
 cushions. ^V'e had Scarcely seater!^ our- 
 selves, for Miss Flint performs this bu- 
 siness with peculiar caution and regard to 
 her dress, before the Abbey family en- 
 tered, escorted by Malcolm : and they 
 took the adjoining pew. I instantly rose, 
 and paying my compliments, asked Miss 
 Heartley for the captain. She told me he 
 was w^ith Miss Howard, and following 
 them. I again took my seat. ^* Why ! 
 where, in the name of wonder! "whispered 
 Miss FUnt, '^ did those women become 
 known to you ?" My answer was prevented 
 by a harsh and strong voice, which rapidly 
 began the service. The captain's en- 
 trance with his niece again discomposed 
 Miss Flint's features, and the confessional 
 
^56 LADT MACLAIRN, 
 
 prayer was lost to her whilst she was 
 chicling Mary for her delay. She meekly 
 said, Mrs. Warner could not walk fast, 
 and retiring; to a remote corner of the 
 pew, composed herself with seriousness to 
 the duty before her. A sermon on the 
 deceiti^alness of riches, begun and finished 
 in less than ten minutes, concluded Mr. 
 Snughead's task. I again acknowledged 
 the liomen in the next pew for my ac- 
 quaintance, with a frankness and cordi- 
 ality, which still more surprised Miss 
 Plint. '^ i find my brother the captain," 
 observed she fixing her eyes onhimj^'needs 
 not any introduction to you, Miss Cowley; 
 
 otherwise" ** Oh dear, no !" answered 
 
 I, " Sir Murdock has anticipated you in 
 your obliging intention. I have had the 
 pleasure of meeting Mi% Flint in my 
 walk." Thus saying, I joined Mr. Heartley, 
 and left Miss Flint to the care and com- 
 pliments of the rector at the church-yard 
 gate. She with much dignity mounted 
 
THE VICTIM OF VlLLAXT. , 257 
 
 into licr coach; I followed. The captain 
 was coldly a^ked Avhether he and Mary 
 walked; an affirmation was given: then 
 turning to the obsequious divine, she in- 
 vited him to take an airing, and to dine 
 also, at the hall. Some excuse was pleaded, 
 which I did not hear. " Phoo!" replied she, 
 ** there is no end of such whims. You will 
 make an arrant slave of yourself.'*- — *'Well, 
 I submit," answered he, leering at me, 
 *' I cannot be in better hands than yours. '• 
 We will take a circuit home," observed 
 Miss Lucretia; with much complacency* 
 *' Miss Cowley is yet a stranger to the 
 country, and you will contribute to re- 
 commend it." He bowed. Now, Lucy, 
 knowing, as I do, your predilection for 
 the cloth, I mean to be on my guard 
 how I lessen your partiality for the black 
 coat you so peculiarly favour: yet, truth* 
 is truth, and though I mean not to re- 
 proach you for your want of taste, I must 
 tell you there is no comparison to be 
 
258 LADY ma<5lairn, 
 
 drawn between ]\fr. Sedley and the 
 reverend Mr. Snugliead; to besure, onr' 
 curate has some quahfications, with wliich 
 in the ophiion of the simple souls at 
 Ileathcot, he might rise to an archbishop- 
 ric without disgrace to the pastoral crook ; 
 but in some particulars, he is a mere cy- 
 pher compared to the rector of Tarefield 
 parish. ** Proofs, proofs," me thinks I hear 
 you call for. Well, be not angry, you 
 shall have them, I advance nothing with- 
 out proofs, nor any thing in malice. I 
 honestly allow that Sedley is handsome: 
 •but his beauty is of that kind which will 
 never make his fortune; for people in 
 general do not much care to admire 
 graces of any kind which they can neither 
 rival, nor like to copy. Now, I have a 
 notion that ]\lr. Snughead was, in the 
 days of his youth, which by the way is 
 on its wane, universally allowed to be 
 irresistible, and that he answered exactly 
 to what some ladies denominate '* a sweet 
 
THE VICTIM CjF villa XV. '259 
 
 pretty man, a neat dapper feiiow, a teazing 
 mortal." His features are still small and 
 regular, and his complexion, naturally 
 fair, is thought less delicate than in the 
 days of his youth, still good; his teeth are 
 white and even, and have suffered nothing 
 from neglect. But either from a scurvy 
 trick of nature, or from his neglect o^ 
 fasting (I say nothing of praying), he is 
 become so corpulent, that were one to 
 encounter him on all fours, instead of the 
 two limbs destined to support him, one 
 would take him for a tortoise; you well 
 know that I am no enemy to en hon point; 
 whenever I see it with a cheerful coun- 
 tenance, I regard it as indicative of a 
 contented mind : but unhappily, Mr. 
 Snughead's opinions are diametrically the 
 reverse of mine. He lives in open and 
 perpetual war with this incroacher on the 
 sympathy and elegance of his person ; and 
 by the cruelties he hourly inflicts on him- 
 self, suffers a martvrdom, from which 
 
*£()0 LADf MAC LAI RN, 
 
 even the mortified Pascal "svould have 
 shrunk; for I think it may be presumed, 
 that by not eating liis soup Pascal's pe- 
 netenlial girdle was bearable; but poor Mr. 
 Snughead cannot be at his ease either full 
 or fasting. He imitates in barbarity the 
 fell Procrastes, for his cloaths arc made 
 by a measure that has never been enlarged 
 since the day of his gentility, and hia 
 unfortunate person, like the victim to tlie 
 iron couch, is doomed to suffer under 
 ligatures as painful as the rack. He 
 seems momentarily in danger of suffo* 
 cation, and I could not, without pity, hear 
 him so often complain of the " melting 
 weather," nor view unmoved his hand in- 
 stinctively raised to his cravat in order to 
 relieve his respiration. But Mr. Snug- 
 head's stoical firmness consoled me, and I 
 next examined his dress. But what pen, 
 my Lucy, can do justice to the elaborate 
 neatness of this canonical beau! Who 
 can describe the glossy black robes, the 
 
THE viGTnr of villaxy. 26t 
 
 polished shoes, the dazzling whiteness and 
 texture of his linen! In what lanouacrp 
 shall I convey to your imagination the 
 honours of his head, his tight, perfumed, 
 well-powdered curls ! I despair, you must 
 even tancy perfection. The frequent ap- 
 plication of a well-scented, delicate cam- 
 bric handkerchief to his face, gave me 
 an opportunity of discovering that it was 
 not his tight lacing which had impelled 
 his hand to his throat, but the desire of 
 exhibiting this precious relic of former 
 beauty; for although somewhat in shape 
 dropsical, it yet retains its Mdiitencss, and 
 is properly distinguished by a sumptuous 
 amethyst ring encircled with brilliaQts. 
 I was diverted from further observation, 
 by his abruptly addressing me with, 
 " Well, my pretty young lady, what say 
 you to our north roads? Is not this a v'ery 
 pleasant one? What do you tliink of that 
 prospect in view?'' I coldly replied, that 
 the village looked pleasant ; and turning 
 
£62 LADY MACL/.IRN, 
 
 to Miss Flint asked the name of it. She 
 mentioned it, and observed to Mr. Snug- 
 head, that Gi^eenwood's plantations were 
 flourishing. This person was, I discovered, 
 the clergyman of the parish in view, and 
 not in the number of INliss Lucretia's 
 elect', but as Mr. Snughead had not suc- 
 ceeded in showing me his wit; he returned 
 to the charge. ** You will soon be pleased 
 with your situation, I hope," said he, 
 taking my hand, ''and we shall hear you 
 acknowledge the happiness you will meet 
 here, without travelling further; a road 
 which so many young ladies take, to find 
 the temple of Hymen." I withdrew my 
 hand, and answered him with one of my 
 petrifying looks, as you have named my 
 honest contempt o^ puppy 'mm'' '' When 
 do you expect your brother?" continued 
 he unmindful of my frowns. It was not 
 determined, was the concise reply, and a 
 silence ensued. Again the civil Mr. 
 Snughead began, *' I hear wonders of Sir 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 3^3 
 
 Miirdock's health and amendment," said 
 he, addressing Miss Fhnt; " they tell me 
 his journey to London has quite renovated 
 him. '^ It lias produced exactly the con- 
 sequences I predicted," replied she, with a 
 toss of her head. " lie is now as much 
 too high in his spirits as he has been de- 
 pressed ; now he is always in motion and 
 busy, and as a proof of his amendment, 
 he has in his walks withMiss Cowley met the 
 Heartleys, and as I supppose, introduced 
 them to her, as neighbours of mine and 
 Lady I\laclairn%." — ^'Always in the wrong, 
 poor man!" said he : *' perhaps he told you, 
 Miss Cowley, that they were duchesses 
 incognito, for he knows them not him- 
 self. However, my dear Madam^'' con- 
 tinued he with a more respectful manner, 
 *' I think you should be on your guard, 
 and never walk with Sir Murdock without 
 another companion. There is no depen- 
 dence to be placed on a man whose miad 
 is so unsettled as the poor baronet's." 
 
g^4 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 ** When I perceive Sir Murdock acts 
 either like a iiiadinan or a fool," answered 
 I, ** it will be time enough to avoid him ; 
 hitherto, I have seen no indications of an 
 unsettled mind." '' Perhaps not, young 
 lady^'' answered he with tartness, '' neither 
 your age nor experience, I presume, have 
 given you the opportunity of under- 
 standing, that there is very frequently a 
 wonderful shrewdness and cunning in 
 madness." — "I have observed no incon- 
 sistency in Sir Murdock's mind," an- 
 swered I, with seriousness, "nor has he 
 discovered to me any of that cunning 
 you speak of, which I conchide may, and 
 must be detected, if the person's mind be 
 . disordered. However," continued I^ 
 assuming a careless air, ** if in any in- 
 stance there can be found so much of 
 method in madness, as to evade all ex- 
 amination, it entirely confirms the re- 
 ceived opinion, that madness and wit are 
 closely allied. Folly under this supposition 
 
THE Victim of villany. 0.66 
 
 appears to me to be worse than lunacy, 
 for that is incurable." 
 
 I am rather disposed to think that 
 something in my too honest face pro- 
 claimed what I thought ; I felt it glow, 
 and I was out of humour : Mr. Snughead 
 of course had the advantage of me, for 
 with much officiousness he endeavoured 
 to be agreeable, I was the 7'ebel Rachel 
 Cowley, — I could not help it, Lucy. On 
 reaching the hall, I followed Mr. Snug- 
 head's steps, on whose arm Miss Flint 
 leaned ; and I overheard the puppy say, 
 *' Proud enough in conscience!" *' Incon- 
 ceivably so,'' was the reply. Yes, Lucy, I 
 am proud, I disdain the civility that can 
 simper at the conceits of a Mr. Snughead, 
 and despise the impudence of any clerical 
 man, who forgetting himself, and the re- 
 spect that is due to his profession, fancies 
 his dress is to enforce respect from others. 
 What right has a reptile of this class to 
 the tribute which all pay to a Sedley? 
 
^66 LADY MACLAIRN, . 
 
 No, no ! I am too provident " to cast 
 pearls before swine." You know my in- 
 infirmity, Lucy; I have novv^ taken a rooted 
 antipathy to this Mr. Snughead, not only 
 as he is a contemptible creature, but 
 because he irritated me to anger. I wa$ 
 vexed and out of humour with myself. 
 The kindly greetings of the collected 
 family were lost upon me, and I was on 
 the point of quitting the room, when 
 luckily, I observed Sir Murdpck's cold 
 and ceremonious bow to the intruder. 
 A placid and contracted air yielded to a 
 suffusion of his Scotch '* blude/'i^ which 
 for a moment mantled in his cheek : this 
 moment was of use to me, I recollected 
 myself. My gaiety succeeded to this 
 little triumph, and even Mr. Snughead 
 was treated with civility. An excellent 
 dinner was a temptation I should have 
 supposed this gentleman had been proof 
 against ; I will not say that he eat like an 
 epicure, but most assuredly he eat more 
 
THE VICTIM OP VltLANV. 267 
 
 than his waistcoat allowed, far he suddenly 
 complained of a most violent pain in his 
 stomach, and Miss Flint prescribed a glass 
 of rum. My tender heart melted, and 1 
 was just going to recommend slackening 
 his waistcoat, when I saw him have re- 
 course to the remedy. He breathed more 
 freely, and attributing his indisposition 
 to the extreme heat of the day, perfected 
 the cure by untying his cravat. But I 
 am doomed to be incorrigible on certain 
 points ! I have not been able to get rid of 
 my antipathy for this animal. Now attend 
 to the conversation. -^ I hope you found 
 Mrs. Snughead's health improved on 
 yonr return home." This was a question 
 from the lady of the mansion, who, till the 
 cloth was removed, had not found time 
 to talk. ** I cannot flatter myself! She is, 
 my lady, still very ill, very ill indeed : I 
 am in constant anxiety, and have too 
 much reason to fear that she will shorten 
 her days by yielding to her complaint, 
 n2 ^ 
 
26s LAj)y maClairn, 
 
 which is merely nervous. She is never out 
 of the apothecary's hands, and it is my 
 opinion, medicine does her more harm 
 than good." The unfeigned sorrow with 
 which Mr. Snughead delivered this opi- 
 nion, induced Miss Flint to take the part 
 of the comforter. " She will soon be 
 better," observed she, " I have no doubt 
 of it, now she is rid of her constant 
 plague. You will see her spirits will mend 
 in a sort time. But what have you done 
 with young graceless?" ** I saw him 
 embarked for the West Indies," replied 
 Mr, Snughead; "he was highly delighted 
 with his uniform, and having gained his 
 point, nothing would do but the army 
 for Banks, and that predilection was, I 
 fear, strengthened by his mother's op- 
 position to it." — ** He has .been unfor- 
 tunate in his destination," observed the 
 captain, ^* and will have a bad climate to 
 encounter; it has of late been fatal to 
 thousands." — '* He must take his chance 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY, 209 
 
 and trust to Providence," replied Mr. 
 Snughead, with great gravity ; ** pru- 
 dence and sobriety at his age, may 
 preserve him, and I hope he will consi- 
 der this, and be wise.'' — '* Wise !" echoed 
 Miss Lucretia, '' he must act otherwise, in 
 that case, than he has hitherto done, and 
 associate with those wiser than himself. 
 However, I commend him for his spirit; 
 for nothing is so ridiculous as to see a 
 young man tied to his mother's apron- 
 string 1 And after all," continued the 
 tender-hearted spinster, *' none of us can 
 die more than once; therefore it is a folly to 
 think of what may happen or not happen 
 to Mr. Banks." — Malcolm, who had dur- 
 ing this conversation been biting a cork, 
 with eyes flashing resentment, now burst 
 into a sarcastic laugh. Lady Maciairn 
 instantly rose, and observed, that the 
 heat of the room incommoded her. A,, 
 look of supplication directed to h^r son 
 did not escape me. Every one agreed 
 N 3 
 
$70 LADY MACLAIRN^ 
 
 that the garden was preferable, and we 
 left the table. I retired to my room. 
 From the window I soon after saw the 
 party sauntering in the avenue, but as 
 Miss Flint was not with them, I sup- 
 posed she had also chosen her apartment 
 for a tite-d'tcte with Mr. Snughead. I 
 therefore hastened down stairs to join my 
 friends, when to my surprise and vexa- 
 tion, I found the tite-d-iite party quietly 
 enjoying themselves on the garden-seat 
 dose to the door I had to pass. I could 
 not escape them without rudeness. "You 
 have done wisely," observed I languidly, 
 " in being stationary." — " I think we 
 have," answered Miss Flint, inviting me 
 to occupy the vacant place by her side, 
 ** and I advise you to follow our ex- 
 ample." — I urged that I was going to the 
 avenue. — " You look fatigued," observed 
 she witli kindness, still pressing me to 
 sit down, ** and your friends will return 
 sootij for I am certain we shall have 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 271' 
 
 thunder." — Not disposed for any exer- 
 tions, I took the seat, and with truth ac- 
 knowledged that I liad the head-ach. 
 My silence, or stupidity, if it must be 
 so, probably led J\Iiss Flint to pursue 
 the thread of the conversation which I 
 had interrupted; for, turning to Mr. 
 Snughead, she said — " But, as I was" 
 saying, Mr. Snughead, is it not your duty 
 to prevent Wilson and his people from 
 instantly occupying the only pew in the 
 church open to strangers ? It is really 
 ridiculous to see such people so mis- 
 placed I'' — *^ I have no authority to pre- 
 vent them," answered he. " The whole 
 chancel is attached to the claims of 
 Wilson, as the proprietor of the abbey 
 lands. It was merely owing to accident 
 he was not my patron for the living in- 
 stead of yourself, for his uncle Avould 
 have purchased it of your father ; and 
 Wilson might, if he pleased, place his^ 
 servants in your pew; for, in fact, you 
 N 4 
 
fi7S LADY MACLAIRl^, 
 
 enjoy it by favour. But why do you 
 Bot ^peak to your brother the captain ? 
 He certainly ought to sit with you on 
 every account. He should not brave 
 public opinion at church. It is, to say 
 no more, indecorous to see him pass you 
 with those ladies^ and make the whole 
 congregation stare, as they do, at his 
 gallantry."—" He would be disappointed 
 of his aim if they did not," answered 
 Miss Flint, with anger ; " it is to brave 
 
 me, that he so far forgets decency ." 
 
 " You judge too severely of your bro- 
 ther," observed the rector, in an assum- 
 ed conciliatory tone; " it may be, and 
 probably is, that the lady exacts this 
 homage to her power. The poor captain is 
 not the only one of his class who finds 
 passive obedience and non-resistance an 
 important duty, without the pale of the 
 church as well as within \V — ** Who is 
 now severe?" cried the facetious Miss Lu- 
 cretia, tapping Mr. Smighead's shoulder ; 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 273 
 
 *' but you married men do right to fancy 
 your shackles no worse than those of 
 your more fortunate brethren. In the 
 mean time tell me what is your opinion, 
 of Mrs. Heartley's discretion, in availing 
 herself of such an introducer as Sir Mur- 
 dock for getting acquainted with Miss 
 Cowley? Pray may I ask," continued 
 she, addressing me, *' how often you have 
 met this fashionable and easy lady?*' 
 " Once or twice in my walks," replied J, 
 desirous of continuing the coversation, 
 '^ and I must confess that she pleased 
 me by her manners ; she is a well bred 
 woman, has a cultivated understanding, 
 and is entertaining." — *^ Your opinion 
 does justice to your candour, young 
 lady,'' observed the coxcomb near me. 
 **' She has, I am told, a good address, and 
 can be very pleasant. I am not surpris- 
 ed that you were pleased with her ; youth 
 ought not to be suspicious.'' — ** It ap- 
 pears fortunately for my sagacity," re* 
 N 5 
 
^74f LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 plied I, laughing, " that Mrs. Heg^tley 
 imposes on all ages. This will keep me in 
 counteaance, should the conclusions I 
 have drawn from her appearance be er- 
 roneous. I took notice that all the fe- 
 males on the benches rose and curtesey- 
 ed to her as she passsed through the aisle 
 at church." *' So they would to Wilson's 
 dung cart,'* answered he, laughing and 
 shewing his large white teeth, " for the 
 ^ame return. They have Madam Wilson's 
 skimmed milk in their mouths, and her 
 Christmas plumb-pudding in perspective; \ 
 and for these they would bend their"* ^ 
 knees and their necks ten times a day, 
 athough they are so insolent to their 
 betters."—-" You forget," observed Miss 
 Flint, " that they owe some civility to 
 the village doctress" — " True," answered 
 i^ '* I forgot their obligations to Mrs, 
 Heartley's James's powder and her worm- 
 jpakes, but I owe her no gratitude on 
 that score; for if she go on, my surplice 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 275 
 
 fees will be diminished, and the sexton 
 will starve." — '' You are the drollest of 
 mortals !" cried the exulting Miss Flint, 
 *' but a truce with your wit. You well 
 know my motives for removing Mary 
 from Wilson's. I had solid reasons for 
 thinking the society she had in that house 
 improper for her. I wish to caution 
 Miss Cowley, without offending her. 
 Are you not convinced that, if Sir Mur- 
 dock had been a rational man, he would 
 have judged, as Lady Maclairn and 
 myself have done, that Mrs. Heartley 
 and her daughter had no claims to Miss 
 Cowley's notice ?" 
 
 " Upon my word you perplex me," re- 
 plied the sapient divine, passing his clay-r 
 coloured hand over his violet face, " I 
 know so little of these ladies ! nothing 
 indeed, but from report. My wife from 
 the first had your scruples. I know not 
 any oe;2/ee/ family that visits them. They 
 say the mother is a very livel^f woman, 
 n6 
 
276 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 and no one can dispute the charms of 
 Miss Alice ! Our young man, Banks, was 
 one of her admirerers ; but his mother did 
 not approve of the intimacy between him 
 and Harry Heartley. This gave offence, 
 and the ladies overlook their pastor. I 
 should imagine Miss Cowley would act 
 with prudence, to be on the reserve with 
 ladies who do not] visit at the hall." — 
 The straggling party approached us, and 
 our conversation finished. — To my great 
 relief, I found that Miss FHnt only waited 
 their return, to bid adieu to the captain ; 
 pleading her engagenient, and the moon, 
 for passing the evening with ** poor Mrs. 
 Snughead."-— The carriage which was in 
 •waiting immediately appeared, and, with 
 much formality, the Reverend Mr, Snug- 
 head took his leave. 
 
 All nature seemed to respire more 
 freely as well as myself, after Mr. Snug- 
 head's departure. The evening was in* 
 deed an Italian one, and Lady Maclairn 
 
THE/^riOTIM OF VILLANY. 2/7 
 
 contrived to impart to it the charms 
 which so often embellished those at 
 Heathcot. We had a regale of fruit in 
 the avenue, and every one was freed from 
 constraint, and disposed for enjoyment. 
 No, your poor Rachel was not in har- 
 mony with tlie scene. My spirits had 
 been exhausted, and I felt unusually 
 languid. I found a luxury in tears, and 
 I sauntered from the circle. I could not 
 check my imagination: it fondly traced 
 our happy days. The regales of straw- 
 berries in the root-house; our Baccha- 
 nalian revelries under the mulberry trees, 
 where we retaliated the mischief done to 
 our frocks, by smearing Horace's face 
 with the impurpled juice; our dear fa- 
 ther's plots and contrivances, at hide and 
 seek, and our mother's tales of wisdom 
 and wonder ! Oh, days of innocence and 
 of peace ! how soon departed ! whilst 
 the remembrances of your pure joys 
 serve but to heighten the contrast of 
 
278 LADV MACLAIRN-, 
 
 those hours of my existence which are 
 now lost to me ! What has Rachel Cow- 
 ley in common with such beings as those 
 who have tormented her to-day, thought- 
 I ! There are those who maintain, that 
 in order to love virtue, we must know vice: 
 but far be from me such experiments !^ 
 I want no hideous contrasts to shew me 
 her genuine work 1 I have witnessed that 
 all her " paths are pleasantness," and all 
 her purposes gracious ! What, under her 
 benign influence, has been done with that 
 turbulent self-will which, when a child, 
 menaced xne with destruction ! of that 
 ignorance and presumption which would 
 have rendered me pernicious to my fellowj 
 creatures 1 What had I been,. Lucy, had 
 I not been sheltered in the very bosom of 
 virtue? and am I a companion for a 
 Miss Flint, or a Mr. Snughead?" 
 
 I was roused from a train of thoughts 
 like these by the sweet Mary. She ap-, 
 preached me, '* Are you indisposed, my. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANV, 279 
 
 dear Miss Cowley ? You look fatigued, — 
 take my arm : we will retire to the house. 
 I raised my tearful eyes ; the very image 
 of pity binding up the wounded foot of 
 the pilgrim, met them. I recollected 
 myself I remembered it was Mary's 
 holiday ; and that my dejection clouded 
 her hour of satisfaction. I pressed her 
 hand, and joined my friends with assumed 
 alacrity. She understood me, and I was 
 recompensed for my exertions. Gaiety 
 gave place to a rational conversation. 
 Captain Flint talked of America, and my 
 spirits settled into composure; but I have 
 been too busy to-day for sleep, and you 
 have to read my nightly labours. It is 
 now the hour when the disturbed spirits 
 are recalled home. I will obey the voice 
 of chanticleer, and go to bed. Sleeping 
 or waking, I shall ever be your affection 
 ate, 
 
 Rachel Cowley. 
 
I 
 
 28€r LADY MACLAIRK, 
 
 Note to the Readeu. 
 
 Finding nothing important to my 
 history during the course of several 
 weeks' correspondence, so punctually 
 maintained by Miss Cowley, I have sup- 
 pressed a few letters, to avoid the censure 
 of prolixity. 
 
 Amongst the causes assigned in her 
 letters at this time for her dejection of 
 mind, she mentions the absence of her" 
 friends from the Abbey, who, it appears, 
 were on an excursion to Hartley- Pool, 
 a bathing-place not very remote from 
 them. She dwells, however, with much 
 more inquietude on the condition of Miss 
 Howard. She observes, that her uncle's 
 absence has still more lessened these 
 observances of civility which Miss Flint 
 had practised. Her indignation daily 
 augments, by perceiving Lady Maclairn's 
 increasing reserve on the subject of Miss 
 
THE VICTIM OF VltLAXY. 281. 
 
 Howard's unworthy treatment. — '^ To 
 what purpose ser\e her dov/ncast eyes 
 and varying colour," writes Miss Cowley, 
 '^ when at tahle she hears Miss Flint tell 
 the servant, that Marys plate needs no 
 change? Tlie very ibotman blushes. 
 Why does she not insist on every one's 
 equality at her table? Surely, Luc}^ the 
 Gospel does not recommend with the 
 spirit of peace, an insensibihty to op- 
 pression ! It is, however, too much for 
 me to witness; and I am determined to 
 have some conversation with Captain • 
 Flint when he returns. Something shall 
 be done to mitigate this poor girl's suf- 
 ferings. I suspect she dares not com- 
 plain to her uncle. I will do it for her, 
 and trust to the event. I disdain that 
 humanity which shrinks from active ser- 
 vice, and can quiet its feelings by exhalt- 
 ing its sighs in useless pity and fretful 
 censures.'' — *' But," adds she, renewing 
 her wonted spirit, " I am called to or- 
 
«82 LADY 
 
 cler. My dear Mrs. Allen is sounding 
 in my ears her direful predictions in re- 
 gard to girls who love scribbling better 
 than sleep, and sentiment better than 
 roast beef. As pale faces bring up the rear 
 of the evils she has mustered to frighten 
 me, I will be docile, though to tell you 
 the truth, her brow of tender solicitude 
 has subdued me. How often have I 
 drawn on her treasures of health ! how 
 often has she relinquished repose in order 
 to watch over my infant wai lings, and 
 sickly frowardness ! Never shall a care 
 reach that bosom on which my head has 
 rested, if I can prevent it! So I will go to 
 bed. What an age it is since you have 
 had letters from Horace! Ah! Lucy, you 
 must pity Rachel Cowley, for she is 
 discontented with herself, though always 
 your 
 
 Rachel Cowley. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLAXY. ^^$ 
 
 CHAP VII. 
 
 ^ Letter dated in October, and address- 
 ed to jNIIss Hardcastle, is fortunately 
 recovered, and the thread of the narra- 
 tive, which I found was broken, is by 
 that means preserved. Trusting that my 
 readers are by this time satisfied that; 
 Miss Cowley can tell her own story ; and 
 are convinced that no labours of mine 
 could better tell it, I cheerfully resume 
 my humble office of copyist. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 F?w7n Miss Coxvleij to Miss Hardcastle, 
 I send you, my dear Lucy, with my 
 thanks to Counsellor Stcadman for \\i% 
 
284 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 letter, one which I have received from 
 Mr. Flamall. You will find that I have 
 an enormous account to settle with him 
 on the score of gj^atitiide ; for the kind- 
 hearted gentleman, not having yet smooth- 
 ed the way for my sweethearts appear- 
 ance, has sent a double portion of sweet- 
 7neats, and withal, many compliments 
 on my sweet and gentle temper, which, it 
 appears, fame has celebrated in the island 
 of Jamaica. I would divide with you 
 this tribute of praise, were it not the first 
 my unparallelled gentleness and patience 
 ever received ; but I will be generous 
 notwithstanding: and as we have here 
 as many preserved limes, &c. as would 
 satisfy the cravings of half the boarding- 
 school misses in London, I have desired 
 all mine may be sent to Heathcot : you 
 will dispose of them in due measure to 
 your neighbours. My friends and neigh- 
 bours returned to the Abbey last night. 
 To-morrow I shall pass the day at Mrs, 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 285 
 
 Heartley's, when I shall give her the 
 counselloi-'s letter. I do most seriously 
 assure you, that my late indisposition 
 has disappeared. Your accounts from 
 Italy were the specifics for the worst 
 part of it ; and without detracting from 
 the good effects of the new curricle, I 
 must attrihute my cure to your prescrip- 
 tion. Lady Maclairn's anxiety has not 
 been less than yours, my dear Lucy, on 
 the subject of medical advice; but I 
 knew the medicine I wanted— it was not 
 in the apothecary's shop. The curricle 
 is, however, still in favour, for it amuses 
 Sir Murdock, and he is proud of being 
 charioteer. You cannot imagine with 
 what tenderness and attention I am treat- 
 ed by Lady Maclairn. I cannot help 
 Joving her; but I wish also to reverence 
 her. It hurts me to see her sink herself 
 and her talents, in order to sooth and 
 keep quiet a Avoman who might be 
 taught to respect her. She never offends 
 
286 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 or disappoints me but when I see her 
 forget Lady Maclairn, and act the part 
 of a mere cringing dependent. I find 
 she has by dint of coaxing and tears, 
 obtained permission for Mary to go with 
 us to the Abbey to-morrow, in order to 
 see her uncle. Mrs. Warner, Miss Fhnfs 
 favourite servant, communicated these 
 glad tidings to Mrs. Allen, and conclud- 
 ed by saying, '*Aye, they will never 
 understand my lady's temper. Miss 
 Howard should have gone without asking 
 leave, and Lady Maclairn should have 
 commended her for taking it for granted 
 she had a right to go to see the captain. 
 Miss Flint is not the better for being 
 indulged in her temper. I do my duty ; 
 she knows I am faithful, but she knows 
 also that I w ill not be her slave. It often 
 vexes me to see Miss Howard so much 
 afraid of her ! Why not say from the 
 very first, ' I will go and see my uncle, 
 Madam.' Instead of this, there are plead. 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. S87 
 
 lugs and tears, which have gained after 
 all,, only leave to stay a few minutes with 
 tlie captain. As to Lady Maclairn, there 
 is something to say. The gf^lden-calf 
 will have its worshippers still ; so she 
 must bend the knee : but poor Mary has 
 no such hopes, and she is a simpleton 
 not to shew more spirit." — This woman 
 is well-intentioned to Miss Howard, and, 
 I believe, contributes to her comforts; 
 for she asked Mrs. Allen to lend her Eve- 
 lina to read to Mary whilst she worked. 
 .She usually sits with her in a little parlour 
 appropriated to Warner ; Miss Flint pre- 
 fering being alone in her lair. I shall 
 not finish this letter till J have seen my 
 ^friends at the farm, having to write to 
 Mr. Steadman. 
 
 Saturclai/ Evening, Nine O'clock, 
 
 Not chusing to part with the serenity 
 I have brought home with me, I hav 
 
«88 LADY MACLAlilN, 
 
 left my friends in the parlour in order to 
 finish the day happily with you. Per- 
 haps there was also a little discretion at 
 the bottom of this intention when first 
 suggested. I wished to avoid Mary's 
 first greeting from her aunt, whose or- 
 ders she had disobeyed ; but on inquiry, 
 the lady had retired for the night before 
 cwe reached the hall. Miss Flint's sleep- 
 ing draught is sometimes potent, I sus- 
 pect ; and Mrs. Patty, our maid, never 
 fails to say on these sudden drowsy fits, 
 *^ Ah, poor lady, she is much to be piti* 
 ed ! for there is nothing like the sleep 
 God sends." Leaving, however, Miss 
 Lucretia to enjoy any repose she can 
 purchase, I will prepare for mine by ah 
 hour's chit-chat with my Lucy. We 
 sallied forth this mornins: for our visit to 
 the Abbey. Never did summer bequeath 
 to her boisterous brother October a more 
 delicious one ! Mary was of the party ; 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. tS§ 
 
 but she was not in spirits. Jonathan, 
 I\liss Flint's footman, followed our steps. 
 I had my project in my head ; for I had 
 determined that this exertion of Miss 
 Flint's power should not pass unnoticed. 
 We had not proceeded more than half 
 our road to the Abbey, before we were 
 met by the captain and the Heartleys. 
 Mary's philosophy forsook her on per- 
 ceiving them. '* How unpardonable I 
 am," said she, ** now I have no pretence 
 for going farther v/ith you ! I must return 
 with the servant.** You may conclude 
 that this observation was conveyed to 
 the captain's ear. He coloured, and with 
 some quickness in his manner turned to 
 the servant, saying, /'You need go no 
 fartlier. I shall take care of Miss How- 
 ard." The man bovred, and retreating, 
 seemed yet to hesitate. *' Inform your 
 lady, Sir, "added the captain with digni- 
 ty, *' that my niece passes the day with 
 me and her friends, and that I shall call 
 VOL. I. o 
 
290 LADY MACLAIKN, 
 
 on her soon." Jonathan, with a lower 
 bow, quickened his pace. 
 
 "Indeed! indeed!" cried Mary, ^' I 
 must not disobey orders, my aunt will 
 be disobhged !" — " I will be answerable 
 for that," replied the captain with gra- 
 vity; ** but in your attention to your 
 aunty Mary, do not forget your uncle, 
 nor what is due to yourself." It was 
 some time before this httle cloud passed ; 
 but it was dissipated by the time M^e 
 reached the farm, and Mary's welcome 
 from Mrs. Wilson apparently banished 
 Miss Flint and her orders from her 
 thoughts. 
 
 I do not remember mentioning to you 
 the noble apartments which Mrs. Heart- 
 ley occupies in the Abbey. But her taste 
 has given to them an appearance of com- 
 fort, light, and cheerfulness, which in 
 my opinion more than supplies the ab- 
 sence of the magnificence, which gave 
 the finish to dark and richly carved wain- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT 2^1 
 
 scoting and bow windows, half glazed 
 -w'ith painted glass. A good selection of 
 books, in handsome glass-cases, gay 
 chintz furniture, and an excellent musi- 
 cal instrument, assuredly suited better 
 th.^ assembled party, and are much more 
 co}>o*enial with the love of neatness and 
 order of the present inmates of the house. 
 But should it happen that any of the 
 departed spirits of the " Ingram" race 
 still hover near the spot of their glory, 
 they must, if they be placable, acknow- 
 ledge, that although cumbrous greatness 
 is fallen, hospitality still retains her em- 
 pire in the house ; and that those vices 
 which ruined themselves and half the 
 county, are buried in the fallen fabric of 
 Gothic ignorance and superstition. After 
 dinner we had music, which at least vied 
 with the lute and virginal of former 
 times. The Heartleys, I find, are all 
 gifted with a taste for harmony. The 
 mother is an excellent performer on the 
 
 02 
 
29^ LADY MACLAIRN', 
 
 harpsichord ; and her daughter she\vs 
 that skill in the science so necessary in 
 the teacher, to produce a pupil like Alice. 
 Mary was pressed for a song. " I have 
 forgotten all I know for want of prac- 
 tice," said she with a suppressed sigh. 
 ** I will sing with you, my love," replied 
 Mrs. Heartley, " and we shall manage 
 very well." She was encouraged, and 
 timidly sung the little ballad of Prior's, 
 ** In vain you tell your panting lover," 
 with taste and expression. *^ Bravo, my 
 sweet Mary," observed Mrs. Heartley 
 with a smile, " you have not forgotten 
 that song at least. You would recover 
 in a month all you have lost." Elated 
 by this commendation, she turned to- 
 wards me, and with eagerness observed, 
 •that Henry Heartley had taught her not 
 only to sing that song, but to admire the 
 poetry and composition; " for," added 
 she, " Henry was an Orpheus, even in 
 his cradle ! I have heard Mrs. Heartley 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 2^3 
 
 say, that she used to quiet liini when a 
 baby, by playing upon the piano forte. 
 How happy we used to be when he was 
 here!" Mrs. Wilson's calling her away 
 prevented jMary from proceeding on a 
 subject which seemed to have placed her 
 heart on her lips. 
 
 I forgot not to deliver the counsellor s 
 letter to his old favourite; Mrs. Heartley 
 ran it over with apparent satisfaction, 
 and give it me to peruse. " I will 
 thank him myself," said she, '' for this 
 proof of his remembrance ; I needed 
 none of his candour and justice. He 
 knew me before I was a wife, he knew 
 me as one, and he knows that Heartley *s 
 widow lives to honour his memory, and 
 to perpetuate his virtues in his children." 
 She pressed my hand with emotion, and 
 smiling through the tears which escaped 
 her, observed that she >vas yet selfish and 
 weak. 
 
 I will not say that we became noisy 
 o 3 
 
t94 l^ADY MAC L Amis", 
 
 after tea, but it is certain that we were 
 childishly gay. The dehghtecl Mrs. 
 Wilson, followed by the young people, 
 made the circuit of her domains. The dai- 
 ry, the cheese-chamber, the poultry-yard 
 were explored, and poor Malcohn \vas 
 left a while in captivity in the pig- stye, 
 for his daring crime of attempting to 
 give Alice a green gown. By means of 
 that secret intelligence at which you so 
 wickedly laugh, Mrs. Wilson and myself 
 were old friends in half an hour. She 
 found out that Miss Cowley was not a 
 iine lady ; and Miss Cowley discovered 
 that the farmer's wife was worth all the 
 fine ladies that have ever swarmed as but- 
 terflies of the hour. She brought to my 
 mind the very image of the good woman 
 before Rhadamanthus, and I doubt not 
 but she could as satisfactorily demand 
 his passport ; for though she has not a 
 daughter to produce as a notable house- 
 wife, yet she has made as many cheeses 
 
THE VICTIM OF V I L LA N V. 295 
 
 as her counterpart, and will 1;race as 
 numerous a progeny to bless her me- 
 mory. 
 
 She seconded my motion for the fami- 
 ly to walk home with us, and it was 
 agreed to, with certain Hmitations as to 
 the time and extent of our demands; 
 which were forgotten by each in their 
 turn. 
 
 At length wt set out on our return 
 home; a cloudless sky, and a full-orbed 
 moon not only favoured us, but there 
 was a serenity in the air which is seldom 
 found in so advanced a season, and wliich 
 seemed to favour the still lino:erin<y leaf 
 as it trembled on its parent stem. There 
 is something in a calm autumnal evening 
 which so resembles the closing in of a 
 well-spent life, that it naturally leads the 
 mind to contemplation, nay, to Sipenshe- 
 iiesSj though not melancholy, which 
 ** loves not noisy foll3\" Our gay spirits 
 yielded to the influence of the objects- 
 o 4 
 
296 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 around us. We sauntered,, rather than 
 walked, and insensibly the party sepa- 
 rated, and our chat was broken into se- 
 veral divisions. Mrs. Heartley and my- 
 self, with the captain, had even lost sight 
 of our company, which had advanced 
 before us. Mr. Flint with enthusiasm 
 supported the opinion of a plurality of 
 worlds; and I sung a verse of Addison's 
 sublime hymn. — " The spacious firma- 
 ment on high." My companions partook 
 with me in the pious fervour of the poet; 
 and we moved so slowly, that had not 
 the sound of an horse's feet accelerated 
 our steps, the traveller might have 
 thought us statues, or ghosts. An an- 
 gle in the road was in our path, and on 
 turning it, Mr. Snughead appeared. He 
 paid his compliments tome with a fami- 
 liarity which even startled me. ^' This 
 is fortunate !" cried he, stopping his horse 
 and endeavouring to dismount, " now 
 my incredulity is corrected ! for will you 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT. '297 
 
 credit me, ^vhen I tell yeu that in lis-^ 
 tening to the seraphic strains you sung, 
 I said, 
 
 ** Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould 
 Breathe such divine inchanting ravishment?" 
 
 But I am convinced, and you must sing 
 again." I instantly concluded that Mr. 
 Snughead had not dined e?2 famille: re- 
 treating therefore from his impatient 
 horse, I observed with good humour, 
 that it did not appear that his horse had 
 heard of the convention — *' no sons:, 
 no supper,*' and was not disposed to 
 loiter on his road. " I am already too 
 late," added I, '^ but at your next visit 
 at the hall, I will sing." This prudence 
 on my part was rewarded; he recollected 
 himself, bowed to the captain, and 
 wishing me good night, spurred his 
 horse. 
 
 Poor Miss Howard on losing sight of 
 o5 
 
^8 LADY maclair:n% 
 
 her uncle, felt all her terrors return. 
 ** What would her aunt say to her ? and 
 what was she to say to her aunt ? She 
 would not believe her." Mrs. Allen en- 
 gaged to stand as witness ; and Malcolm 
 encouraged her by saying, *' My mother 
 will plead your cause, never fear." Bat I 
 verily believe the poor girl felt it, as a 
 respite from violence when Warner told 
 her that Miss Fhntwas asleep. 
 
 Mrs. Allen sends her blessing, and 
 your Rachel Cowley remains your af- 
 fectionate Sister arid Friend, 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Rachel Coxoky to Miss Hardcastk, 
 
 You will, my dear Lucy, when you 
 have read this letter, commend me for 
 my caution. *' I am well, and all here 
 are well, thank God for it !" Do not how- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 299 
 
 ever fancy that I have not had an escape, 
 altliough tlie curricle has not been over- 
 set, nor have I had a cold and sore throat 
 in consequence of my night walk. 
 
 In my last I mentioned that poor Mary 
 had suffered from being out so late; but 
 that her aunt wisely recollecting that 
 Sunday was the captain's visiting day, 
 graciously admitted Mrs. Allen's evi- 
 dence in favour of the poor culprit; and 
 that our Sabbath was a day of peace as. 
 well as rest. I heard nothing of colds 
 or rheums that day. — On Monday, Mary 
 was kept hard at work upon the odious 
 carpet. I p<^de out with Sir Murdock 
 in the morning of the following day, and 
 on our return found your dear letter. 
 All was peace, in consequence, in your 
 Rachel's bosom. But at dinner no 
 counterfeiting could conceal from me 
 the disorder which Lady Maclairn took 
 such pains to hide. It is incredible to 
 conceive, what a command of features. 
 06 
 
300 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 this woman has acquired! But I detest her 
 when she dares not speak with frankness. 
 There is a tremulous play of the muscles 
 round her mouth, and a slowness in her 
 utterance that mark the struggle within. 
 On enquiring for Miss Flint and Mary, 
 who did not appear, we were told that 
 Miss Fhnt had a most oppressive ner- 
 vous head-ach, and that Miss Howard 
 had gotten a sore throat. — On Wednes- 
 day, hoth the invalids were worse ;. for the 
 aunt was uneasy on Mary's account who 
 was feverish. ^^SirMurdockwas, however, 
 to be amused." He might fancy it would 
 turn to a putrid sore throat and be alarm- 
 ed. It is a pity, thought I, whilst 
 Lady Maclairn made all these excuses 
 for imposition, that nature had not given 
 you a different complexion ! I was cer- 
 tain, Lucy, that there was some mystery 
 in this business. Warner kept close, and 
 Mrs. Patty said that Miss Howard kept 
 her bed» I do not love mischief; there- 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 301 
 
 fore, to amuse my good baronet, who ap- 
 peared somewhat discomfited by the 
 sudden change in the weather, and his 
 lady's frequent desertion of him in order 
 to attend the sick, I engaged him to 
 settle us in our winter quarters, and to 
 make shelves for the books lately sent 
 me from town. Two days incessant rain 
 were thus passed; and we learned tliat 
 the valetudinarians were recovcrino*. — On 
 Sunday, Mrs. Allen and myself went to 
 church in the morning ; and I was re- 
 quested to say to Captain Flint, that 
 Alary had been indisposed with a colcL' 
 *' He will find her altered," added her 
 ladyship with one of her unlucky 
 blushes ; ^* she has been very ill." I 
 asked her whether there had been any 
 appearance of danger in the case. '' No," 
 replied she, " but her aunt has been 
 much distressed on her account. They 
 mean to dine below to-day, lest the cap- 
 tain should be uneasy," 
 
302 
 
 I delivered my commission with the 
 same precaution it was given me, and 
 whilst I was satisfying Mary's friends on 
 the subject, Mr. Snughead passed 'me 
 with a supercilious bow, without taking 
 off his hat. On entering the parlour we 
 found it heated by a large fire ; it was 
 really suffocating. Miss Fhnt, huddled 
 up in wrappers, had taken possession of 
 the great chair on one side of it. Mary, 
 with a face as pale as death, in a close 
 morning cap, a muslin cravat, and a 
 shawl closely pinned up, had her ap- 
 pointed station on the other side. Her ^ 
 cheek glowed however on seeing us ; 
 but she appeared fluttered and weak. 
 Our congratulations followed, Avhilst the 
 captain looking with much seriousness at 
 her, said, '* My dear child, why was I not 
 informed of your being ill.^ — ** It was 
 only a cold. Sir," answered Mary with a 
 faint blush. **And a cold she has to 
 thank you for," said the sister. ** Night 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT. 303 
 
 walks in October do not suit Mary. It 
 is well it was no worse, I expected only 
 a putrid fever." The servants, for we 
 are old fashioned people on a Sunday, 
 had by this time covered the table ; and 
 a smoaking sirloin graced the bottom of 
 it. Mary rose from her seat in visible 
 disorder, oppressed, as I thought, by the 
 heat of the room, and the savoury steams 
 of the dinner ; but as she tottered to the 
 door, she burst into hysterical sobbings, 
 and Malcolm and myself prevented her 
 falling, for she fainted in our arms. 
 Malcolm placed her in a chair in the 
 vestibule. All was hurry and alarm. 
 Whilst others were searching for reme- 
 dies, and her uncle was supporting her 
 head, I hazarded to open the door into 
 the garden, observing that the air Avas 
 mild, and would restore her. It evi- 
 dently was useful, for she gave signs of 
 returning consciousness, but again re- 
 lapsed. "Take oif that cravat," said I, 
 
304 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 "and let her have more air. I opened the 
 sash, . which was nearer to her than the 
 door. Whilst giving this direction, the 
 captain obeyed. Judge of our sensations 1 
 Her throat was black and bruised by a 
 violent grasp, and her bosom lacerated 
 hy what appeared to be the strokes of a 
 cane or horse-whip. " God of Heavca 
 and of earth !" groaned out the captain, 
 " what means all this ? To what am I 
 doomed 1" — '^ My dear captain," said 
 the almost breathless Lady Maclairn, 
 who now approached with some remedy, 
 " have patience, all shall be explained. 
 Your sister has been to blame; she is 
 sensible of it: she bitterly repents of her 
 violence: she has suffered, severely suf- 
 fered for it; all will still be well, only 
 have patience." He heeded her not, but 
 with a look of horror and apparent calm- 
 ness, he surveyed for some moments 
 the marks of the outrage which had 
 been committed ; then wrapping the 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA NY. 305 
 
 shawl round the still insensihle girl, he 
 attempted to raise her in liis arms; but 
 they refused the office. Miss Flint now 
 ventured to open the door, to order the 
 servants to be summoned, and to carry 
 Mary upstairs, loudly reprehending us 
 for exposing her to the air. " Shame to 
 thy sex, begone!" cried the captain 
 vvith fury. " Urge me not, thou barba- 
 rian ! But art thou not here to exult 
 over thy victim?" He again drew off the 
 shawl. '' This is Howard's child, Lucre- 
 tia'" continued he, " this is thy sister's 
 orphan!" A heavy sigh from Mary drew 
 his attention again ; he attempted to 
 raise her; but his limbs trembled to that 
 degree, that he was forced to desist. 
 The prompt, the ever-succouring Allen 
 gave ]\Ialcolm a sign. He took Mary in his 
 arms, and carried her to my room, follow- 
 ed by ^Irs. Allen. The captain was on the 
 point of doing so likewise, when J\Iiss 
 Lucretia darting towards him, and 
 
306 LADY MAC LA I RN, 
 
 catching his coat, exclaimed, " You 
 shall hear me ' She provoked me.'' — No 
 language can convey to you, Lucy, the 
 expression with which he replied. '' Yes • 
 I doubt it not ! So did her hapless vir- 
 tuous mother ! so did her noble-minded 
 father 1" He paused, and raising his eyes 
 to Heaven, moved his lips as though in 
 silent ejaculation. ** No," said he in a 
 solemn tone of voice, ** I will not curse 
 her! But," added he, ''God, Lucre- 
 tia, will call you to answer for this deed!" 
 *'Hear me ! only hear me !" screamed she. 
 " I only punished her insolence. I will 
 justify myself!" — '' Never canst thou do 
 ^/?«if," replied he, *^ where humanity re- 
 sides." He broke from her and turned 
 into the garden. A violent fit succeeded 
 to Miss Flint's efforts ; the servants with 
 difficulty conveyed her, in her struggles, 
 to her apartment, from whence even I 
 'heard her screams. On entering my 
 room, I found Miss Howard laid on the 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLA NY. 307 
 
 bed, and much recovered though weep- 
 ing. *' What confusion ! what mischief 
 have I occasioned J" said she addressino: 
 me. ^' Who was it, my dear Miss Cowley, 
 M'ho took off my things? Was it not my 
 uncle ? How unfortunate that I could 
 not get up stairs!" — '' Say not so," ob- 
 served the soothing ]\Irs. Allen, " but 
 rather, my dear child, be thankful to Pro- 
 vidence who has thus seasonably checked 
 your aunt's violence ; such a temper re- 
 quired it.'* Mr. Flint entered the room, 
 no longer was his face gloomy, and his 
 eyes sparkling with rage. He was pale 
 and languid, and sitting down by his 
 uiece, he shed tears like an infant. " The 
 coach is preparing," said he at length, 
 *' can you make the effort my child ? 
 I leave' not this accursed house without 
 you." — *^I am much better, I am able to 
 go any where with you," replied the poor 
 girl ; ** but my dear, dear uncle ! leave 
 not my aunt in displeasure; indeed she 
 
508 
 
 is very sorry for what has passed, indeed 
 I had entirely forgiven her." — " Name 
 her not,'* answered the captain w^ith emo- 
 tion; **go to your parents' grave; see her 
 w^ork there! Remember_ the protection 
 she promised youl But I will be just/' 
 continued he, suppressing his rising pas- 
 sions, ^^ to my credulity, to my easy 
 faith, you must attribute these scourges. 
 But who," continued he, turning to us, 
 " could have conceived that any hand 
 could have inflicted such cruelty on a 
 creature like thisj and that hand a sister's J 
 But we will depart, my child, tothat home 
 where your bruises will be healed, and I 
 shall be justly reproved for the pride and 
 ambition which caused them. Your 
 asylum is secure, and you will have bread 
 and peace." 
 
 My hitherto restrained tears now flowed 
 abundantly : it was well for me they did, 
 for the throbbing in my temples was ex- 
 cruciating. I attempted to speak ; but I 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANT. 309 
 
 could only say witli extreme emotion, 
 ** Dismiss your fears for her, her happi- 
 ness shall be my care." A look was the 
 thanks I received. The coach drew up, 
 and ^lalcolm entered the room. Whilst 
 Mrs. Alkn prepared Mary, he said in a 
 whisper, ''- I leave my father to you. 
 Miss Flhit is in strong convulsions, the 
 doctor is sent for, and my mother is 
 dreadfully alarmed." He carried Mary 
 to the carriage, and accompanied her and 
 the captain to the Abbey. 
 
 Mrs. Allen v/ent to assist Lady Mac- 
 lairn, and I to perform a duty which was 
 become pressing, for I had not seen Sir 
 -Murdock from the first signal of alarm. 
 I recollected this circumstance with a 
 sensation of terror undefinable at this 
 moment ; and quickening my steps, met 
 a servant whom I believe I frightened by 
 my eagerness, for in reply to my question, 
 he said, with some hesitation of manner, 
 that he had seen Sir Murdock go into 
 
310 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 the garden, and, if I pleased, he^ would go 
 with me to look for him. I saw the 
 conclusion he had drawn, and therefore, 
 with collected ease, rephed that I should 
 soon meet him. 
 
 For sometime, however, the object of 
 my search eluded me ; at last I perceived 
 him sitting in a nook so concealed, that 
 it serves the gardener for his rollers, &c. 
 He resembled a statue rather than a living 
 creature ; and was so lost in thought, vhat 
 he neither heard my steps nor saw me 
 when I stood before him. He was speak- 
 ing, however, and I heard him say, 
 " Are there no remedies? Is she dead? 
 Will not Heaven spare her? Destruction 
 must have monsters for its work!" — I 
 took his hand and he started. '* I come 
 to seek you," said * in a cheerful tone; 
 " Miss Howard is recovered, and gone 
 home with her uncle. I want you to 
 give me some coffee.'' He looked at me.— 
 ** Angel of peace !" said he, in a lo\v 
 
THE VICTIM OF VILLANY. 311 
 
 voice, *' art thou still near me ?" — I again 
 spoke. ** Your daughter, 3^our adopted 
 daughter, my dear Sir Murdock, is near 
 you," observed I, *' but you do not heed 
 her. It is cold here, and she begs you to 
 enter tlie house." I gently took him by 
 tlie arm ; he again started as from a 
 dream. — '' My dear Miss Cowley," said 
 he, rising, *' is it you that I see here !"' — 
 I repeated my entreaties, and he instantly 
 took the way to the house and inquired 
 whether Miss Howard had seen his wife 
 before she left the hall. " Lady Mac- 
 lairn has been with Miss Flint," replied 
 I, ^' who is ill; but we shall all rejoice at 
 the events of this day when more com- 
 posed. Mary Howard shall never want 
 the protection of her aunt." — ^' Your 
 purpose is worthy of you. Miss Cowley," 
 replied the baronet, with collected dig- 
 nity and energy, '^ and in your inten- 
 tions of goodness, as these relate to this 
 injured girl, your path is not only easy 
 
312 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 but pleasant. But what can you do or 
 say for Sir Murdock Maclairn and his 
 wife, under whose ostensible roof inno- 
 cence has been oppressed and ill-used? 
 My supposed infirmity of mind, — would 
 to God it were only supposition ! — -may 
 screen me from ignominy with the cha- 
 ritable. But can generosity or candour 
 find an apology for my wife? Will it 
 not be said, and with truth, that she was 
 a daily witness of the improper treatment 
 which Miss Howard received from her 
 aunt ? Will it not be said, that she knew 
 of the outrage committed recently; and 
 that, in order to spare the offender, she 
 concealed it from tlie poor suffering- 
 girl's friends ? Will censure stop here ? 
 Oh, no ! it will be alledged that lady 
 Maclairn encouraged this woman in her 
 cruelty!" — ** The most confirmed ran- 
 cour would refuse to credit such a tale of 
 Lady Maclairn, if told," answered I, 
 with seriounejs. *^ There is not a menial 
 
in her family would not refute it, and 
 bear witness to her gentleness and huma- 
 nity. Every one has seen her unremit- 
 ting attentions to Miss Howard's com- 
 fort, and her endeavours to render her 
 aunt kinder to her. She trusted that 
 Mary's assiduities would, in time, soften 
 down the asperities of Miss Flint's tem- 
 per. She knew that her interference 
 would be liable to misconstructions ; and 
 though she has suffered but little less than 
 Miss Howard, since her residence here, 
 yet she has not dared to oppose her 
 remaining, lest it should be thought that 
 she feared her influence might be un- 
 friendly to her son's interest. I have 
 seen Lady Maclairn's difficulties from 
 the first hour of my being here," con- 
 tinued I, "I have seen her miserable on 
 this poor girl's account ; and I am cer- 
 tain she M^as a stranger to the treatment 
 she has lately undergone." — " You plead 
 to a partial hearer," answered he, deeply 
 sighing; " I know that to my Harriot 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
314 LADY MAC LA I RN, 
 
 a scene of such violence would have been 
 death. But is it not incomprehensi- 
 .ble to you how such a mind as her's 
 should have retained for this woman an 
 affection so determined and so constant? 
 Why does she persist in living with her? 
 Why subject herself to mortifications and 
 degradations to please her caprice ? 
 ** Lady Maclairn is human ;" replied I 
 with a smile, " she is a mother, and 
 tender mother ; and she may, with jus 
 tice, expect that her son Phihp will b 
 benefited by these sacrifices of her car 
 Besides these motives, there are other 
 more exalted, which prompt her zeal. 
 What would this woman have been? 
 What would she be without Lady Mac- 
 lairn ? To whom is she indebted for the 
 little humanity which she does shew?" — 
 The baronet appeared silently to ac- 
 quiesce in my sentiments ; but I found he 
 was again withdrawn into his own mind. 
 I, however, found it not difficult to 
 rouse him; for on my observing that 
 
THE VlCTlJi. OF VILLANY. '315 
 
 poor Lady Maclaim would be anxious 
 for his safety in so chilling an air, he 
 quickened his steps. His wife was in- 
 deed anxious ! She burst into tears on 
 seeing him, and the interesting Sir Mur- 
 dock seemed to have no care but that of 
 soothing her distress. '^ You must listen 
 to Miss Cowley, my Harriot," said he, 
 *' she will teach you to rejoice at the 
 captive's deliverance." — '* I could and 
 should rejoice," answered she, ^' that 
 poor Mary is freed from the hardest of 
 all servitudes, did I not see Lucretia so 
 struck with a sense of her fault and dis- 
 grace as to be in danger of her life. She 
 is an unhappy woman," added she, with 
 emotion, " and I cannot help pitying 
 her." No reply was made. Mrs. Allen 
 now entered with the coffee, and I found 
 by her report, that in getting Miss Flint 
 to her room, the servants, unable to 
 hold her in her struggles, had let her slip 
 from their arms, and she had hurt her knee 
 very much ; she was, liowever, asleep ; 
 
3l6 LADY MACLAIRN, 
 
 the doctor had seen her, and the servants 
 had got a respite. Mary was composed 
 and much better. I retired to my 
 room, and continued to solace my 
 mind by viewing this day of Mary's 
 emancipation as a happy event. I really 
 considered the horse- whipping part of 
 the business with the stoical indifference 
 of a mail-coach driver, when 1 contrasted 
 it with the good effects it was likely to 
 produce. In a week Mary may forget 
 the discipline, and all will be well ; but I 
 sincerely wish it may lead Miss Fhnt to 
 consider whether it might not turn to 
 good account to scourge herself, ]Mo- 
 derate flagellation would neither hurt /jer 
 temper of body or mind. — But lest you 
 should be induced to think unfavourably 
 of my tender mercies, I shall conclude this 
 letter; and you will, I trust, give the 
 kiss of peace to your 
 
 Rachel Cowley. 
 
 ENP OF vol. I.