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 in her bosom. She was seated in the remotest of the bow windows, with a huge mass of canvass before her, and was plying her needle with all dispatch to get up the lost time. The endless roll of carpeting was now displayed. Miss Cowley could not but praise the design; and she heard that _three_ years would finish the furniture of the room in crossstitch, without _one comment_ that could offend. Can you wonder that Mary was allowed to fetch 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 prerogatives. 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 had she not consented when she did, I should have lost my hard-earned laurels. You will not, however, fail in congratulating 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, farewell 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.
This poor girl hangs on my spirits. I will reserve for my next letter the account of our evening walk. You will lose nothing by my going to bed; for I am weary, and somewhat of your petulant
LETTER VIII. _Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._