“My dear young lady,” answered I, 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; 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, with honest indignation, “dressed as she is! But she is Mr. Howard’s child for all that, and would be so in rags. Such relations! say I: I would weed in a ditch rather than owe my bread to such.” A bell sounded, and the girl withdrew, saying, “You will soon see, Madam, that I am right.”
“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 where a servant is kinder treated than _an aunt_?” “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 had not met with proper deference. The 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 _friend_. 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 first employment here shall be to teach Miss Flint a lesson, and to shew her that 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 sword_ should it be necessary; you will say it has an edge; so much the better when employed to correct cruelty.
In stature, Miss Howard is about my height, but in symmetry 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 light-brown locks, nearly flaxen, braided up and fastened round her head, whilst a black ribband confines the redundancy of the ringlets from covering her snowy forehead; her eyes are the darkest blue I ever saw, and, perhaps, to their colour it is owing that I never yet saw eyes so expressive at once of spirit and softness: at one moment they make their appeal to the heart by the imploring look of infant-trust and confidence; at another, they bespeak a soul within, equal to the duty of checking insolence; but these emanations are transient, and a melancholy expression of tenderness, rather than of sorrow, more commonly beams from them. To what shall I liken her 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.