CHAP. I.

——I will not attempt to describe my agitations!—“In order to relieve these emotions,” continued he, “I will ease your suspence. I have seen a person who has brought me intelligence of Duncan. A stranger was introduced to me, at a coffee-house last night, as wanting to know and speak to me. He announced himself as the super-cargo of a Dutch ship, now in the Thames, and said, that he was charged with a commission for me, by a gentleman whom he had 4known at Surinam. I instantly ordered a private room, and he informed me, that he had first seen Duncan at Amsterdam; had there learned enough of his story to pity him; and that he made the voyage to Surinam with him. His unfortunate condition and deep dejection, during our passage,” added this man, “more and more interested my feelings, for one whose education and manners had promised a very different career. I was happily disposed to befriend him; and as, fortunately, I had the means of so doing, for I recommended him to a merchant there, who received him into his counting house. But

the fever of the climate seized him before he had been a fortnight on shore. He saw his danger, and had, as it appears, been preparing for it. He gave into my hands the picture of a young lady, which he wore in his bosom, with a parcel, in which he informed me was contained some letters of the lady’s, with one for you. He conjured 5me to deliver these to you in person, knowing that our ship was bound to this port on her return. I promised to observe his instructions, and I have only further to add, Sir, that knowing, as I do, the love he cherished for the lady, whom he blessed with his last breath, I think it right to hint to you some precautions in acquainting her with my poor friend’s death.” “You may suppose I satisfied him on this point,” continued my brother, and I endeavoured to sift out of him, whether he knew the whole of Duncan’s adventures and secrets. “It was an unhappy business,” observed I, “that obliged this unfortunate young man to quit England and his friends, who were able and not indisposed to serve him, had he not

been too precipitate: his flight was nearly the death of the young woman in question. You surprise me, by telling me that his attachment for her continued. Did he often speak of her?” “Never,” 6replied he, “Nor do I even know her name or address. When, in nearly his last hour, he gave me her picture from his bosom, and said, Mr. Flamall knows for whom it is destined. He will take care to tell the unfortunate injured object of my love, that Charles Duncan has expiated all his errors, by dying, and leaving her free.—I said, with seriousness, that the most fatal of Duncan’s errors had been that of not knowing his best friend; a mistake, however, which had not been shared by the young lady, whose heart he had gained; for, that she still looked up to me for friendship and consolation. Our conversation finished by settling our next meeting for this morning. I have just left him, satisfied, as I believe, that Duncan had in me a friend as generous as himself. There is your picture and this packet of your letters, with one for me, which I have just received from the gentleman.

I will leave it for your perusal 7when you are able.” He quitted me, unable to witness my distress. My Duncan’s letter I shall copy.

LETTER LIV. Charles Duncan to Mr. Flamall.

“Before this reaches your hand I shall be numbered with those in the grave, and appear before that awful Tribunal, at which mercy has her everlasting post. There, and there only, does Charles Duncan expect to find justice; for then alone, will his errors be weighed with his difficulties. Enclosed is my will, in which I have left to Harriet Duncan, my lawful wife, the whole and entire property bequeathed to me by Margaret Duncan, my supposed mother, and the only friend I ever knew. I have charged this, my property, 8with the payment of one hundred and fifty pounds to Mynheer Adrian Vandergucht, my last benefactor. This sum has been partly advanced for my necessities; he will, with this, produce my acknowledgment for the receipt of one hundred pounds. I bequeath to him fifty, as a debt of gratitude for kindnesses which none can fully repay but his Maker; and to his blessing and mercy do I fervently recommend him.”

“From what Mrs. Duncan repeatedly declared to me, and also from your conversations with me, on the subject of my little fortune, I conclude that my wife will receive three thousand pounds as her future provision. It may be, this pittance will be shared by my child. Let it be your care, Sir, faithfully to discharge a trust, for the due performance of which, you will one day be called to a strict account by a Being more to be dreaded than,

LETTER LV.

My letter from my unfortunate Charles contained these words:

“Forget, my beloved wife, that Charles Duncan ever had existence, or that, in the miserable course of that existence, he has involved yours in his misery, blasted the hopes of your youth, and planted daggers in your faithful bosom. Forget, if thou canst forget, when pressing to thy maternal bosom, the fruit of thy ill-fated union, the wandering, wretched father of thy babe: or with pity and forgiveness think of him, as one at rest; rescued from ignominy: concealed from the cruel mockery of scorn; welcoming, at this moment, the approach of his deliverer; and looking forwards with humble hope to an eternity, in which he will be recompensed for the trials of 10his mortal state, and pardoned for those mistakes, into which his youth and frailty betrayed him. I enclose the copy of my will, with some of your dear letters: with these you will receive your picture, but I cannot spare it from my bosom, whilst my trembling hand is able to raise it to my lips, or do more than sign the name of thy repentant, yet faithful,

A time was allowed me for my sorrow, and recovery from a fever of much danger; but which was, I believe, of use to my general health; for I certainly was less liable to illness, after this crisis. I experienced something of those sentiments, which the dying Duncan had suggested. I rejoiced that he was at peace; and considered my fate as ascertained. I could not know more of grief, than I had experienced; and in a submission, which necessity, and, I hope also, religion enforced, I settled into a calm 11and resigned frame of mind. My extreme bodily weakness favoured for a time this more placid condition of my spirits; and my recovery promised to my tender and assiduous brother, a renewal of his comforts. He soon mentioned Mr. Duncan’s donation. He told me, “that knowing, as I did, that both Keith and his wife were dead; he thought it was much the most prudent measure to let the property remain on the stock books, as it had done from the time of Mrs. Duncan’s committing her money and her reputed son to his trust, till such time, as he should become of age.

His quitting England within three or four months of his being so,” continued my brother, “prevented any settlement or transfer of the stock, but he was mistaken in his opinion of his fortune; for it amounts to no more than two thousand pounds.” I answered with sincerity that I regarded it, whatever it might be, as a common fund; and should leave to him the disposal 12of it as most useful to our common comfort; and being persuaded that I should not live long, I thought it could not be better than as it was. He laughed at my prophetic fears, assuring me that the physician had told him I stood a better chance of being well than when at Kensington; and he left me with a cheerfulness, which soothed me. His attentions did not slacken. He saw with satisfaction my returning activity, and frequently observed, that I was never more beautiful. By degrees he prevailed on my reluctance to visit, and receive his friends; and I as clearly discovered, that my brother wished to see me married, as I manifested a repugnance to the very idea of exchanging my condition for any other. I

thus attained my twenty-third year. From this period, the calmness of my mind was disturbed, by the change I perceived in my brother’s modes of life. With anguish of soul I discovered, that he 13was tired of having a sister without ambition, and a beauty, as she was called, on his hands, who was deaf to flattery, and who scorned infamy, however decorated. I was stiled “a romantic idiot,” “a cold and unempassioned statue, proud of a form that was daily becoming useless.” I became resolute; and told him, that with any form I would endeavour to gain honest bread. My spirit silenced him. He begged my pardon, and pleaded his conviction, that it would be in my power to marry the libertine, whom he had conditioned with on easy terms, though not less profitable to his views. His fears, his regrets at seeing me waste my youth in unavailing sorrow; his belief, that my lover would marry me at the death of an old grandfather; his wishes to do so secretly, were placed before me. I relented, though without yielding to his dishonourable views, and all was again peace between

us. But I no longer considered 14Philip Flamall, as the guardian of a sister’s honour. Under this conviction I soon after saw Mr. Flint, for the first time. He came to the house, as it appeared, on business; and finding Philip absent, seemed desirous of waiting for his expected return; he was accordingly conducted to me, as a client of too much consequence to remain unnoticed in the office. His age and respectable appearance, induced me to shew him every mark of respect. I recollected my father’s opinion of Mr. Flint and his family; and I tried to please him by my attentions. My guest contentedly maintained his post till my brother returned at the dining hour; fortunately we were alone that day; and Mr. Flint, who accepted at once of the invitation, found only a table at which economy presided; I retired as soon as my office was finished; but I was told that he meant to breakfast with my brother the next morning. Unconsciously I endeavoured to secure to 15Philip this wealthy client; and as it will appear, I succeeded.

Some days after, my brother with much seriousness informed me, that my modest and composed deportment had pleased Mr. Flint. “He has not only made his proposals to me of jointuring you in four hundred pounds per annum,” added he, “but he has also, on hearing the precise state of my fortune, engaged to befriend me, by lending me a sum of money which may turn to good account. He knew my father, and he is no stranger to the difficulties in which he left me involved.”—I attempted to speak—“Hear me to the end,” pursued he, “before you condemn a brother to a goal. This man’s age, his retired habits of life, and his fair character in the world for his uprightness, renders him more an object of veneration than of love. You may recompense him for the protection of the parent, by the kind offices 16of the daughter, whilst, by the union he solicits, you are securing to yourself an honourable name and independence, and saving me from ruin; for I tell you plainly, that I am already in a state of insolvency, in regard to credit. I will have you to

consider of the answer you will commission me to give Mr. Flint.” “It is not necessary to deliberate,” replied I weeping bitterly. “The knowledge of my real situation will at once convince Mr. Flint, that I am not a suitable companion for his children, nor a becoming choice for him, and without adverting to the folly, which has led him to think of marriage, it will be enough that he knows, that I am Duncan’s widow.”

Never shall I forget my brother’s fury! “Be a fool to the last!” cried he, “See me a beggar! blast my character with your own! sink me to a level with your highway-robber! But know,” added he trembling, 17“that I can be as desperate as your Duncan. I will not be an outlaw for one purse! Can you be so weak as to think any man will marry you, under the name of Duncan? What has this miscreant to do with the present question? He is dead, the witnesses of your accursed marriage are dead. You have persisted in bearing your own name, and the character of an unmarried woman. Oh Harriet! let me plead for your youth, your helpless condition of fortune; for your innocence, and for a brother who loves you! Marry this worthy man: and let me see you protected from the dangers of the world!” I was subdued. I forsook the path of rectitude, and, as Harriet Flamall, married Mr. Flint, who was three times my age.

CHAP. II.

We quitted London a few days after the ceremony was performed, and I now had leisure to repent of my weakness and timidity. My introduction to my husband’s family was humiliating and painful to the last degree of suffering sensibility. I was not only an intruder, but I was an usurper of the rights I claimed; and I felt that, in my assumed title of Mrs. Flint was contained a reproach, which covered me with confusion every time I heard it pronounced. My only consolation sprang from the resolution of devoting my life to the man, whom I had thus deceived. He was fond of me, and I studied incessantly to make him contented with his wife. I foolishly began to think that 19I should contribute to the slender stock of domestic comfort which I found at Farefield Hall. Mr. Percival Flint, and his amiable sister Mary appeared to treat me as one destined to enlarge their, and their father’s happiness: even Miss Flint seemed reconciled to the young mother-in-law, who had, in no instance abridged her in her authority. I was fond of flowers, and already began to enjoy the amusement of

the garden. Mr. Percival one morning entered my dressing room, where Lucretia and myself were at our needle work, my husband having taken his darling Mary with him in his airing; his hands were filled with some rare and beautiful plants, and I found that this was a tribute to my peculiar taste. My thanks followed, and Percival withdrew, in order to see the plants properly disposed of. “You have converted,” observed Miss Flint with a malicious laugh, “our grave and solemn book-worm into a useful being. What a 20thousand pities it is! that Percival had not seen you before his father:” as the business is now managed he must remain the “despairing shepherd;” for I think the public cruelty prohibits the son-in-law from marrying the mother-in-law, who in many cases might console the poor widow. “My countenance marked how little this levity pleased me.” “Dear me!” pursued she, “you need not look so offended, or be displeased with so harmless a joke; you cannot help Percival’s playing the fool, nor prevent people’s thinking, that

the father at seventy is not altogether so handsome as the son at twenty-three or four: you might be tempted to acknowledge this truth yourself were it not for this unlucky relationship; you could not in conscience deny that he is much better qualified to succeed Mr. Duncan, than his father.”—I heard no more; for yielding to terror and surprise I fainted, and my successive fits alarmed the family; and, as I 21supposed, moved to pity the cruel insulter, who had brought them on me. She was very assiduous and attentive to me during the few days of my convalescence; and with much humility begged my pardon, saying that she had never entertained the slightest suspicion prejudicial to me; but that having heard of a disappointment of a tender kind, which for a time had injured my health and spirits, she frankly confessed that she had attributed my choice of her father to that cause; believing that no woman with my beauty, and at my age, would prefer for an husband a man old enough for her grandfather. “I neither intended to reproach you or that choice,

nor to hurt your feelings by naming the gentleman in question,” added she. “I simply wished to establish between us a confidence and friendship which I conceived might be useful to us both. I have my secrets, my dear Harriet; and my heart has suffered like your own, the pangs of 22unrequited, nay, abused love.” She proceeded to inform me of Mr. Howard’s perfidy, who, after having gained her affections, had voluntarily given himself up to the arts of her sister, who with a pretty face, and the years of a child had basely supplanted her in the opinion of a man, whom she well knew was necessary to her happiness; and who had from her very cradle shown the greatest cunning and address in rendering every one subservient to her will; and she warned me at the same time of her absolute power over my husband.

Subdued by conscience, and uncertain of the extent of the information which Miss Flint had gained, with the knowledge of Mr. Duncan’s name, I accepted of her apology; and still further tutored by my brother, passively yielded to an authority, with which I was unable to contend. I tamely witnessed the treatment which 23poor Miss Mary received from her enraged and implacable sister, and finally saw the innocent girl ruined in her father’s love. My husband was incensed by some letters of Mr. Howard’s, which fell into Lucretia’s hands; these were incautiously preserved by the fond girl, and they were certainly such, as Mr. Howard had done much more wisely not to have written. I endeavoured to soften my husband’s resentment; and I should have succeeded; for he loved his daughter Mary, even, if I may be allowed to speak, to a degree of weakness; and he was wretched because she was unhappy. He spoke to my brother on the subject, and discovered an inclination to unity and forgiveness, requesting him to employ his influence with Lucretia to give up to a sister a man whom she

could not win for herself; adding, that notwithstanding Mr. Howard had so highly offended him, he would pass over every thing for the sake of peace, and to content 24poor Mary. My brother instead of executing this commission, sternly warned me to take care of what I was doing. “Were you any thing but what you are,” said he, “you would perceive the danger of your interfering with this virago; let her alone: in time you will see her your slave instead of your tyrant. Trust not to the fondness of your husband; you see what she has effected with her father in regard to her sister. Judge of her power by this proof of it, and avoid offending her: you will ruin yourself, and serve no one.”

I believe it is not useless to mention here, that on my marriage taking place my brother took his degree as barrister, and quitting his house in Red Lion Square, took apartments in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Whether his former clients forgot him, or he them, I know not; but so it was; he resided almost constantly at the Hall, and became useful to Mr. Flint in return for 25the hospitality he found. Confined principally to the care of amusing and nursing my husband, whose health rapidly declined under the perpetual vexations he endured, I could not help perceiving that my influence was sedulously watched; and every time he expressed the regrets he experienced from being prevented seeing his child, I was suspected of having produced those relentings of nature in her favour, and was reproached by Mr. Flamall for my folly in being blind to my own interest; and I was told that I had nothing to do but to attend to my husband. I perfectly understood this language, and I did attend to my husband; but it was not to deceive, or insult him. He was too weak to be advised by me; and unhappily feeling

at times the state of abject slavery, to which his own weakness had reduced him, he vented his resentments in peevish complaints, and angry reproaches, that I was too passive and indifferent to defend him 26against his tormentor; then, weeping like an infant, he would beg me not to leave him, for that I was his only comfort.