Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1794], The fille de chambre (H. & P. Rice, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf327].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
THE
FILLE DE CHAMBRE,
A NOVEL.
By Mrs. ROWSON,
OF THE NEW THEATRE, PHILADELPHIA;
AUTHOR OF CHARLOTTE, THE INQUISITOR, VICTORIA, &c.
The highe&longs;t wi&longs;h I ever form'd has been,
Ju&longs;t to be plac'd above the reach of want,
In the ble&longs;t medium between &longs;hining &longs;tate,
And the hard griping hand of penury.
Enough for this, and, if I have to &longs;pare
A little for my &longs;uff'ring fellow creatures,
I &longs;hall have reach'd the height of my ambition,
PHILADELPHIA:
PRINTED FOR H. & P. RICE, NO. 50, HIGH-STREET;
AND J. RICE & CO.
MARKET-STREET, BALTIMORE.
1794.
Preliminaries
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PREFACE.
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“The fille de chambre,” cried
Mr. Puffendorf, the other day, as
he took up the title page of my manu&longs;cript
(for, to own the truth, he caught me scribling:)
“Why, &longs;urely Madam, you do
not think of troubling the Public with the
adventures of &longs;o in&longs;ignificant a character?”
I &longs;miled, for I knew my good friend
Puffendorf imagined worth and virtue entirely
connected with birth, rank and fortune,
and that the actions of an ob&longs;cure
individual, po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of neither of the&longs;e advantages,
could not for a moment be
worthy attention. There was &longs;omething
in my &longs;mile that rather offended him, &longs;o,
without waiting for an an&longs;wer, he thus
proceeded:
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“You are the &longs;trange&longs;t woman upon
earth! You pretend to blend in your writings
both in&longs;truction and amu&longs;ement;
but, in the name of common &longs;en&longs;e, what
in&longs;truction can be drawn from the life of
an Abigail? Why, the whole mu&longs;t be a
&longs;eries of intrigue, low wit, and frivolity.”
“Then, Sir, you mu&longs;t &longs;uppo&longs;e &longs;he lives
with people in very exalted &longs;tations, and
I write their memoirs, not her's.”
“No, Madam, no, I &longs;uppo&longs;e no &longs;uch
thing; for then your work might be
worth reading. Per&longs;ons of high birth are
as different from their inferiors, in their
&longs;entiments and manners, as you can possibly
imagine.”
“I grant it, Sir, yet I hope you will
allow, that the inferior in fortune is often
the &longs;uperior in every other qualification.”
“Madam! Madam!” cried he, &longs;triking
the table in a pa&longs;&longs;ion, “you are enough to
drive a man mad.”
“Do not mi&longs;take me,” I replied, mildly;
“I do not mean to in&longs;inuate, that virtue,
&longs;en&longs;e, or honour, are confined to any
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particular &longs;tation in life. I am fully sensible,
that there are many exalted characters
in this happy nation, who&longs;e amiable
conduct, more than their elevated rank,
render them objects of univer&longs;al adoration:
but, at the &longs;ame time, you mu&longs;t
give me leave to add, that the number is
but very few, when compared to the arrogant,
the trifling, and the profligate, who
form &longs;o large a part of our people of fashion
Virtue will appear amiable, tho'
habited in the garb of poverty: and a
woman may be an intere&longs;ting character,
tho' placed in the humble&longs;t walks of life,
and po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ing no other recommendations
than a feeling heart, and a &longs;trong &longs;en&longs;e of
her duties, both moral and religious.
Such a character is my FILLE DE CHAMBRE,
the true child of nature; and as &longs;uch you
mu&longs;t not expect to read of wonderful discoveries,
of titles, rank and wealth, being
unexpectedly heaped upon her. The
only claim &longs;he will have upon your attention,
&longs;hall be her integrity and innocence.”
“It will never do,” &longs;aid he, “take my
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word for it; you will never get five shillings
for your manu&longs;cript.”
“I &longs;hall try it, however,” &longs;aid I, as
he went &longs;narling down &longs;tairs; “nor &longs;hall
&longs;plendor ever with me be a veil to cover
guilt; vice and folly are fair game whereever
they appear, and cannot be too
much held up to ridicule and abhorrence;
nor &longs;hall meek-eyed virtue be &longs;uffered to
&longs;ink to oblivion; wherever &longs;he dwells &longs;he
&longs;hall be greeted with &longs;miles of approbation,
while the veil of humility &longs;hall be
withdrawn from her heavenly countenance,
that all may behold her tran&longs;cendent beauties,
and, with a degree of glorious enthusiasm,
follow her faithful votaries.”
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CHAP. I. THE COTTAGE FIRE SIDE.
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“But who knows, my dear father,” cried Rebecca
Littleton, laying her hand on that of her
father, “who knows but &longs;omething yet may be done
to reward a veteran grown grey in his country's &longs;ervice?”
“I hope there will, my child,” &longs;aid Mr. Littleton;
“and if there is not we mu&longs;t be content, for his Majesty,
God ble&longs;s him, cannot provide for all. I wi&longs;h,
my girl, it was in my power to convince him, that I
am &longs;till willing to fight for him, though the bread I
eat from his bounty is but brown: but with this poor
&longs;tump,” looking at all that remained of his right arm,
“and this di&longs;abled leg,” &longs;tretching it out as well as
he could, “all my fighting days are over; I can only
talk now, my child.”
“But you have fought bravely once,” &longs;aid Mrs.
Littleton, while a beam of exultation darted from her
eyes.
“And after all,” cried Rebecca, “it is hard to be
di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed for fifteen pounds.”
It was a clear fro&longs;ty evening, in the beginning of
January, when, in a little cottage, on the &longs;ea coa&longs;t of
Lincoln&longs;hire, Mr. Littleton, an old &longs;uperannuated lieutenant
in the army, his wife, daughter, and two or
three neighbours, were comfortably &longs;eated round a
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cheerful fire, the brown jug was ju&longs;t repleni&longs;hed by the
fair hands of Rebecca, and the &longs;ong, the joke, and
the tale went cheerfully round, when an unwelcome
though not unexpected, vi&longs;itor made his appearance,
and threw a damp over their harmle&longs;s mirth.
This was no other than their landlord's &longs;teward, who
came to demand the rent, in paying which they had
been, from various di&longs;agreeable rea&longs;ons, more backward
than u&longs;ual; it amounted to fifteen pounds, and
the poor old man had no method whatever to rai&longs;e the
money. He had often made his di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es known to
people in power, who had once &longs;tyled them&longs;elves his
friends, but never received any thing more than promises
that &longs;omething &longs;hould be done; but hope had &longs;o
often deceived him, that he now cea&longs;ed to li&longs;ten to her
flattering voice, and was &longs;inking into de&longs;pondency,
when the lovely Rebecca cheered him with the &longs;entence
at the beginning of the chapter.
Rebecca was the younge&longs;t of &longs;even children, and
the only one who lived to years of maturity. She was
at this time ju&longs;t &longs;ixteen, and had combined in her person
all the beauty of a Venus, and the &longs;implicity of a
Grace. She po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed a &longs;triking figure, ju&longs;t tall enough
to be elegant. Her &longs;hape was perfect &longs;ymmetry, and
her countenance one of tho&longs;e which may &longs;afely be pronounced
more than beautiful; for, to the &longs;ofte&longs;t blue
eyes, flaxen hair, and a complexion that out vied the
lilies, was added &longs;uch an inexpre&longs;&longs;ible look of benevolence
and candour, that it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to &longs;ee and
not love her. She had been taught by her father to
read and write her own language correctly, by her mother
&longs;ome little knowledge of the French, and by the
vicar's lady, who was extremely fond of her, &longs;he had
learned to play, with a con&longs;iderable degree of ta&longs;te, on
the lute; but being educated intirely in the family way,
and never having pa&longs;t the boundaries of her native village,
except once or twice to a neighbouring fair, there
was about her &longs;uch an air of mode&longs;t timidity, that, by
the unob&longs;erving, might be mi&longs;taken for ru&longs;tic bashfulness.
Though con&longs;idered by her young companions as the
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belle of the village, in her own opinion &longs;he was ever the
meane&longs;t, the lea&longs;t worthy notice of any. Brought up
in the &longs;tricte&longs;t notions of the prote&longs;tant religion, &longs;uch
univer&longs;al charity pervaded her &longs;oul, that &longs;he never suspected
the worth and integrity of her fellow creatures;
but implicitly believed, that every one, who pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
to love or e&longs;teem her, &longs;poke the genuine feelings of
their hearts.
She harboured no ideas which fear or &longs;hame prevented
her revealing, for this rea&longs;on, her actions, her sentiments,
were often open to the malevolent misconstructions
of tho&longs;e, who, having art &longs;ufficient to conceal
the real impul&longs;e of their natures, a&longs;&longs;ume the &longs;emblance
of tho&longs;e virtues, the reality of which is po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed only
by the genuine children of &longs;implicity.
In giving the character of Mr. Littleton, we require
but few words; he was hone&longs;t, po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of valour,
good &longs;en&longs;e, and a liberal education.
Mrs. Littleton was twenty years younger than her
hu&longs;band, and was, when he married her, remarkably
beautiful. She was the daughter of an exci&longs;eman, and
at a country boarding &longs;chool had picked up a few &longs;howy
accompli&longs;hments, but her mind had been totally neglected;
her &longs;entiments were therefore narrow and illiberal,
and &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed that kind of worldly knowledge,
which rendered her &longs;u&longs;picious of the integrity
of every human being.
The little knowledge Rebecca po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of mankind,
&longs;he had gleaned from a &longs;mall, but not ill-furni&longs;hed, circulating
library, to which all the inhabitants of the
village &longs;ub&longs;cribed. Her mind was highly tinctured
with the romantic, but withal was enlightened with
&longs;uch a high &longs;en&longs;e of honour, virtue and piety, that it
was almo&longs;t impo&longs;&longs;ible to lead her to a wrong action;
yet there were times when the fortitude of Rebecca
was vulnerable. She could &longs;tand unmoved in a right
cau&longs;e again&longs;t entreaty, per&longs;ua&longs;ion, and even the severest
threats; but &longs;he was not proof again&longs;t the &longs;ahft
of ridicule.
We have &longs;aid that Mrs. Littleton had been hand&longs;ome
indeed, &longs;he was &longs;o &longs;till, being at this period but forty
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&longs;even years old; for piercing black eyes, che&longs;nut hair,
and a florid complexion, gave her greatly the look of
youth. This juvenile appearance of her mother was a
great misfortune to Rebecca, for Mrs. Littleton was
ever more plea&longs;ed with being told &longs;he looked like her
elde&longs;t &longs;i&longs;ter, than in being complimented with being
the mother of &longs;o lovely a young woman; indeed, &longs;he
con&longs;idered every compliment paid to her daughter as
derogating &longs;omething from her own merit. She considered
her more as a rival than a child, and was happy
in every opportunity to ridicule the feelings of a heart,
of who&longs;e intri&longs;ic worth &longs;he had no idea.
Rebecca could not &longs;ometimes help feeling the unkindness
of her mother; but whatever tho&longs;e feelings
were, &longs;he &longs;uffered in &longs;ilence; no complaint ever e&longs;caped
her lips, but &longs;he endeavoured, by the milde&longs;t acquiescence
in her every wi&longs;h, to conciliate that affection
which &longs;he would have con&longs;idered as her greate&longs;t comfort.
“It is hard, indeed, to be &longs;o di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed for fifteen
pounds,” &longs;aid Rebecca: “I wi&longs;h I could hit on any
plan by which my dear father might be relieved from
this embarra&longs;&longs;ment. I have a great mind, if you will
give me leave, to go to-morrow morning to Lady Mary
Worthy; I &longs;aw her la&longs;t week at the vicar's when &longs;he
a&longs;ked me to come and &longs;ee her, and &longs;aid &longs;he &longs;hould be
happy to render me any &longs;ervice in her power.”
“And do you think &longs;he really meant what &longs;he &longs;aid?”
cried Mrs. Littleton.
“To be &longs;ure I do,” replied Rebecca.
“Then you are a fool, retorted the mother, “not
to take it, as it was de&longs;igned, a mere compliment,
which &longs;he paid in re&longs;pect to Mrs. Alton, who, &longs;he &longs;aw,
was rather partial to you.”
“Dear mamma” &longs;aid Rebecca, in an accent of surprise,
“how can you think &longs;o? There was no nece&longs;&longs;ity
for her to a&longs;k me, if &longs;he had not wi&longs;hed me to come,
for, you know, I am greatly her inferior.”
“Don't talk &longs;o &longs;illy, child! do you &longs;uppo&longs;e I wi&longs;h
every body to come to my hou&longs;e whom politene&longs;s obliges
me to a&longs;k?”
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“I can only &longs;ay, mamma, that I would never a&longs;k
any per&longs;on whom I &longs;hould not be really glad to &longs;ee
when they came.”
“I think, my dear,” &longs;aid Mr. Littleton (though I
have the greate&longs;t re&longs;pect imaginable for your opinion)
“that it would not be ami&longs;s for Rebecca to go to Lady
Mary; when &longs;he knows our &longs;ituation &longs;he may be
prevailed with to reque&longs;t her &longs;on, Sir George, to wait
till we can make up the &longs;um: I will, in the mean time,
write to my old friend, Lord Antrim, perhaps, he
may get my &longs;mall pen&longs;ion enlarged,
Mrs. Littleton remained &longs;ilent, and it was agreed
between Rebecca and her father, that the next morning
&longs;he &longs;hould vi&longs;it Audley Park.
CHAP. II. THE APPLICATION.
At twelve o'clock, next morning, the lovely Rebecca,
habited in a plain white jacket, a strawhat,
and black tere&longs;a, &longs;at out for Audley Park.
Lady Mary was alone in the library when &longs;he arrived,
and, on the &longs;ervant's announcing her name, desired
her to be immediately &longs;hown up.
“Now this is really kind,” &longs;aid &longs;he, with the mo&longs;t
conde&longs;cending &longs;mile, advancing to the blu&longs;hing Rebecca,
and, taking her hand, led her to the &longs;ofa on which &longs;he
had been &longs;itting, and &longs;eating her&longs;elf by her &longs;ide: “I
flatter my&longs;elf you are come to &longs;pend the day with me.”
“Indeed, madam,” replied Rebecca, “I was not
&longs;o pre&longs;uming as to hope &longs;uch an honour: I came to request—
to entreat”— &longs;he faltered—the tears
&longs;tarted in her eyes—Lady Mary interrupted her.
“Speak out, my love; do not be alarmed, but re&longs;t
a&longs;&longs;ured, I am ready to grant you any favour within
the limits of my power.”
“You are very good, madam. I hope you will pardon
the liberty I have taken; but my father, madam
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—his income is very &longs;mall—we are a twelve-month
in arrears in our rent—if you will kindly
u&longs;e your intere&longs;t with Sir George in our behalf.—
“Surely, my dear, your agitation is unnece&longs;&longs;ary.
I dare &longs;ay my &longs;on has never thought of the rent.”
“No, madam, I do not &longs;uppo&longs;e he has, it is &longs;o
trifling; but Mr. Villars, his &longs;teward, a&longs;ked for it la&longs;t
night, and was very angry!”
“Indeed! &longs;aid her lady&longs;hip; was he angry?”
“I do not mean to complain of Mr. Villars, madam,
for he has been very good to us, and often has waited
a month or two for his money. You know, madam,
he is only doing his duty when he demands it; for was
he to be remi&longs;s in collecting the rents, Sir George
would certainly be offended with him.”
Lady Mary &longs;miled at the eager manner in which
Rebecca uttered this apology for Villars; but it was a
&longs;mile of the utmo&longs;t &longs;atisfaction, it convinced her of
the goodne&longs;s of her young vi&longs;itor's heart.
“I think,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “if &longs;ome friend could be found
who would advance this &longs;um for your father.”
“Alas! madam, how is it to be repaid, unle&longs;s, indeed,”—
he&longs;itating, blu&longs;hing, and ri&longs;ing from
her &longs;eat.
“Unle&longs;s what, my &longs;weet girl?”
“Your lady&longs;hip would generou&longs;ly lend me the money,
and take me into your &longs;ervice, that I might render
my&longs;elf u&longs;eful till it is repaid; or, if you think me
too pre&longs;uming, madam, perhaps, you could recommend
me to &longs;ome family where there are children. I am not,
it is true, accu&longs;tomed to &longs;ervitude, but I will exert my
poor abilities cheerfully, and hope my willingne&longs;s to
oblige will, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure compen&longs;ate for my awkwardness.”
“You are too good, and too lovely,” &longs;aid Lady Mary,
“for a &longs;ervant; but you &longs;hall, if you plea&longs;e, come
and live with me. I will &longs;ettle this little difficulty of
your father's and &longs;hall think my&longs;elf obliged if you
will accept a trifle annually for your pocket expences.
She then drew forth her pur&longs;e, and pre&longs;ented the delighted
maid with a twenty pound bank note.”
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Greatful beyond the power of expre&longs;&longs;ion, Rebecca
could only &longs;ink on her knees, pre&longs;s the hand of her
benefactre&longs;s to her lips, and, &longs;miling through the tears
that gu&longs;hed from her eyes, looked tho&longs;e thanks &longs;he
found it impo&longs;&longs;ible to utter.
“Go, go, you are a &longs;imple girl I &longs;ee,” cried her
lady&longs;hip, rai&longs;ing and pu&longs;hing her gently from her. “Go,
make your father happy, and, if you can obtain his
a&longs;&longs;ent to my propo&longs;al, to-morrow I will come and fetch
you home; but I mu&longs;t have you mend that little heart
of your's, it is but a very poor one to go through the
world with.”
“It means well,” replied Rebecca, trembling and
confu&longs;ed, rai&longs;ing her timid eyes to the face of her benefactress.
“Aye, aye, I am &longs;ure of that, but it is too hone&longs;t
by half; be&longs;ides, your intelligent countenance betrays
its every emotion.”
“I hope, madam, it will never experience any, but
may be revealed with impunity.”
“Ah! my dear,” &longs;aid Lady Mary, &longs;haking her
head, “you will, no doubt, one day find that it will
be to your intere&longs;t to di&longs;gui&longs;e its feelings as much as
po&longs;&longs;ible.”
Rebecca, then took her leave, and as &longs;he returned
home, could not help thinking that it was very &longs;trange,
and very incon&longs;i&longs;tent too, that &longs;incerity &longs;hould be deemed
a virtue, and yet di&longs;gui&longs;e be thought nece&longs;&longs;ary to
tho&longs;e who have much commerce with the world.
CHAP. III. SUSPICION.
“Well, Mi&longs;s, what &longs;ucce&longs;s?” cried Mrs.
Littleton, as Rebecca entered the room: “I
hope you are convinced I was right, in &longs;uppo&longs;ing your
vanity incited you to hope without foundation.”
“Indeed, my dear mamma, for once you were
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mistaken: Lady Mary has received me kindly, and more
than granted my reque&longs;t.”
She then, with the mo&longs;t bewitching &longs;implicity, related
her interview at the Park, while Mr. Littleton
looked exultingly happy; but good mamma contracted
her brow, and, drawing her&longs;elf up, as was her cu&longs;tom
when any thing di&longs;plea&longs;ed her, &longs;aid:
“I hope, Mr. Littleton, you will not think of letting
the girl go: Lady Mary certainly does not mean
to take her entirely, and it will only be filling her head
with idle notions, of which, heaven knows, &longs;he has
plenty already. Be&longs;ides, what do we know of Lady
Mary? It is true, &longs;he came down here la&longs;t year, and
remained about three months; but who can tell any
thing of her character and morals? She may lead the
girl into all manner of folly.”
Now the ca&longs;e was exactly this: the late Sir George
Worthy had purcha&longs;ed this e&longs;tate but a few months
before his death, and as Lady Mary was a woman of a
very retired turn, the &longs;hort time &longs;he remained in the
country &longs;he vi&longs;ited but few families, and tho&longs;e without
ceremony. Lady Mary was truly benevolent, but &longs;he
performed tho&longs;e acts her&longs;elf, and not unfrequently made
the &longs;ilence and &longs;ecrecy of the per&longs;ons benefitted, the
only terms on which they were to hope a continuance
of her favours.
She in general re&longs;ided at a &longs;eat about twenty miles
from London, to the end that &longs;he might &longs;trictly scrutinize
the conduct of a daughter who was married to a
young di&longs;&longs;ipated nobleman, and who, though ble&longs;&longs;ed
with a mother, who&longs;e example might have led her on
to every laudable pur&longs;uit, was &longs;o entirely &longs;wallowed up
in the vortex of folly and di&longs;&longs;ipation, that &longs;he had not
time to attend to the e&longs;&longs;ential duties of a wife, mother,
and mi&longs;tre&longs;s of a family.
In the place where Lady Mary u&longs;ually re&longs;ided, &longs;he
was con&longs;idered as a proud, un&longs;ocial woman, by the
midling kind of gentry; by her equals as an oddity,
and by her dependants as &longs;omething &longs;uperiorly good,
and was by them beloved, re&longs;pected, nay, almo&longs;t
adored as an angel of benevolence.
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But Mrs. Littleton &longs;eldom gave people credit for
virtues which &longs;he had not the penetration to di&longs;cover,
though &longs;he could ea&longs;ily imagine them capable of practising
deceit, inhumanity, or almo&longs;t any vice that can
di&longs;grace human nature: &longs;he therefore thus continued
her di&longs;cour&longs;e to her hu&longs;band.
“People are not always what they &longs;eem to be; this
lady may make very fair promi&longs;es, and when once the
girl is in her power, treat her as a common &longs;ervant. I
beg Mr. Littleton, you will not let her go.”
“I am &longs;orry my dear love,” cried Mr. Littleton,
“to differ from you in my opinion concerning Lady
Mary's offer; I think our dear girl will be highly honoured
in her friend&longs;hip and protection. You know
my dear if &longs;he &longs;hould find her&longs;elf unhappy, &longs;he has a
home, however homely, where &longs;he will be &longs;ure of being
received with tran&longs;port. I am growing old; when
I am gone all is gone; it would be &longs;ome comfort to
me to reflect in my la&longs;t moments, that my dear Rebecca
was not likely to feel the pangs of want. The &longs;mall
annuity I have purcha&longs;ed for you will &longs;upply the necessaries
of life to one, but not to both of you. I am as
unwilling as you can be to part with her; but it is necessary
&longs;he &longs;hould be in &longs;ome way of earning a &longs;upport,
and, I tru&longs;t, &longs;he has &longs;en&longs;e and fortitude &longs;ufficient to
with&longs;tand every temptation to evil.”
“Oh! my father,” cried Rebecca, taking his hand,
“you may, indeed, depend on a child who&longs;e heart
your precepts have trained in the love of virtue. Methinks,
&longs;hould I ever be tempted to &longs;tray in the paths
of vice, your ble&longs;t image will ri&longs;e to my imagination;
methinks I &longs;hall hear your per&longs;ua&longs;ive voice &longs;ay “Rebecca,
wilt thou break thy father's heart?” Will
it be po&longs;&longs;ible, then, for me to proceed? Oh! no;
the remembrance of you, like a tali&longs;man, will &longs;hield
me from every danger.”
“Why, how the girl talks!” &longs;aid Mrs. Littleton:
“I declare &longs;he learns the&longs;e things out of the books &longs;he
is for ever reading; for 'tis not the language of the
world; there is nobody hardly can under&longs;tand her”.
“It is the language of the heart,” replied the father.
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“Well, Sir, you are to act as you plea&longs;e; but if
any ill come of it, don't blame me; don't &longs;ay I drove
her from home.”
“My dear, you talk of things which never could
enter my mind. I know you will always be happy to
have your child with you, &longs;trange if you were not, &longs;o
amiable as &longs;he is! But as I &longs;aid ju&longs;t now, I am growing
old, I cannot remain much longer with you, and, perhaps
you may marry again.”
“Marry again! Mr. Littleton, you &longs;urely are trying
to vex me. Ah! my deare&longs;t life, when I loo&longs;e
you I &longs;hall loo&longs;e all my happine&longs;s; the re&longs;t of my life
will be a continued &longs;cene of mourning; there is a degree
of indelicacy in a woman marrying a &longs;econd time:
it is an in&longs;ult to the memory of the fir&longs;t hu&longs;band, of
which I could not have believed you thought me capable.
It has hurt me more than I can expre&longs;s,” and
&longs;he bur&longs;t into tears.
“All this now is non&longs;en&longs;e,” &longs;aid the old man, taking
hold of her hand; “for my part I &longs;ee nothing in
a woman's having two hu&longs;bands; it is naturally to be
expected when &longs;he is left a lovely widow, in the prime
of life, as you are now.”
“No indeed papa,” &longs;aid Rebecca, innocently,
“there is nothing in it at all; it is as common as can
be.”
“Hold your tongue, Mi&longs;s; do not talk &longs;o unfeelingly
of the lo&longs;s of your poor dear father.”
“God &longs;end,” cried Rebecca, fervently cla&longs;ping her
hands “that for this many, many years, I may not
experience &longs;o heavy an affliction as the lo&longs;s of my revered
parent: it would be a heavy &longs;troke to us both,
my dear mamma, but to me irreparable; for, though
you might find another hu&longs;band, where &longs;hould poor
Rebecca find another father?” She turned away, covered
her face with her hand, and &longs;obbed aloud.
After much more altercation it was at length agreed,
that Rebecca &longs;hould accept Lady Mary's offer, and that
Mr. Littleton &longs;hould him&longs;elf go to the Park that afternoon
to thank her for her bounty, and to reque&longs;t her
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kinde&longs;t attention to the welfare and peace of his darling
Rebecca.
Lady Mary received him with great politene&longs;s, and,
after chatting &longs;ome time with him, and a&longs;&longs;uring him of
her protection to his daughter, &longs;he thus addre&longs;&longs;ed him:
“I feel my&longs;elf much intere&longs;ted in the happine&longs;s of
Rebecca, and for that rea&longs;on, though I mean to make
her my companion, I &longs;hall not introduce her into company,
or give her a ta&longs;te for expen&longs;ive plea&longs;ures. When
I have vi&longs;itors, her meals will be &longs;erved in her own
apartment; when I am alone, which is the greate&longs;t
part of my time, &longs;he will eat and &longs;it with me, reading,
working, or amu&longs;ing her&longs;elf as inclination &longs;hall prompt.
“I will confe&longs;s I have an intere&longs;ted motive for this
conduct. I have a &longs;on, Mr. Littleton, the la&longs;t remaining
branch of two noble families. I am &longs;en&longs;ible his
heart is not invulnerable, and I am fully convinced
that your daughter is the mo&longs;t lovely woman I ever
beheld; but all charming as &longs;he is (pardon me, Sir,
it is my duty in this point to be &longs;incere) I &longs;hould not
choo&longs;e to &longs;ee her the wife of my &longs;on, and I have too
high a regard for her to expo&longs;e her to trials to which
her fortitude may be unequal. I do not &longs;cruple to &longs;ay
it would hurt my pride to &longs;ee her his wife; but it would
wound my &longs;en&longs;ibility to &longs;ee her his mi&longs;tre&longs;s. My hou&longs;e
at Twickenham is large; one part of it is &longs;eldom visited
by any body but my&longs;elf; here I mean to order her
an apartment, and whenever I expect Sir George I
&longs;hall reque&longs;t her to keep within it: however, as he is
a very gay young man, I do not &longs;ee him very often,
and when he does come he does not &longs;tay with me above
two or three hours; therefore, Mr. Littleton let Rebecca
know this, if &longs;he can bear &longs;olitude &longs;ometimes,
and in general retirement, I &longs;hall e&longs;teem my&longs;elf happy
to have her with me. If &longs;he di&longs;likes the plan, do not
fear to inform me. I remember I was once young myself,
and &longs;hall not be at all offended if I find youth and
beauty unable to &longs;ubmit implicitly to the caprices of
age. One thing more I mu&longs;t mention: I &longs;hall constantly
vi&longs;it Audley Park once a year; Rebecca &longs;hall
always accompany me, and as we &longs;hall be out of all
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danger at tho&longs;e times, every amu&longs;ement that I can procure
&longs;he may depend upon enjoying.”
Mr. Littleton was a man of &longs;en&longs;e: he was plea&longs;ed
with Lady Mary's frankne&longs;s, and readily conceived,
that the propo&longs;ed retired &longs;ituation of his child would be
the only thing to &longs;hield her from tho&longs;e &longs;nares and
temptations to which a young woman is &longs;ubject, who,
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of beauty, wit, and &longs;en&longs;ibility, has neither
rank or fortune to recommend her to the &longs;erious attention
of tho&longs;e who might pretend to admire while, they
lead the un&longs;u&longs;pecting innocent a victim to vice and seduction!
He returned home, and maugre the ill-grounded
&longs;u&longs;picions of his wife, the next day but one was fixed
on for the lovely Rebecca to attend her patrone&longs;s, and
enter on an entire new cour&longs;e of life.
CHAP. V. NOUVELLE SCENES.
Lady Mary was not an early ri&longs;er; Rebecca
had been accu&longs;tomed from earlie&longs;t infancy to
leave her bed at fix o'clock; &longs;he had therefore aro&longs;e at
her u&longs;ual hour, and finding her&longs;elf likely to be alone
till ten o'clock, went into the library, and &longs;elected
from among the many books there, Sir Charles Grandison
for her morning amu&longs;ement; the intere&longs;ting pen
of Richard&longs;on had &longs;o entirely charmed her attention,
that &longs;he thought not of time till Lady Mary made her
appearance.
“You have been reading, my love,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “are
you fond of Novels?”
“I like the&longs;e entertaining Hi&longs;tories, madam; they
always command my attention, and awaken my sensibility.”
“It is dangerous, Rebecca, to indulge that sensibility
too much; be&longs;ides, my dear, you mu&longs;t not give
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way to an exce&longs;s of feeling, when the tale you read is
only a fiction.”
“A fiction! madam; you &longs;urpri&longs;e me. I thought
they had been the Hi&longs;tories of per&longs;ons who had really
exi&longs;ted.”
“Far from it, child; human nature can never ari&longs;e
to &longs;uch a pitch of excellence as this Sir Charles Grandison
is repre&longs;ented to be; nor will you among your
own &longs;ex, be able to find a woman like Mi&longs;s Byron:
be&longs;ides, if you accu&longs;tom your&longs;elf to think the&longs;e high
wrote &longs;cenes real, you will find the actual occurrences
of human life &longs;o flat and in&longs;ipid, that the very disappointment
will render you di&longs;gu&longs;ted with the world.”
Rebecca li&longs;tened with attention, but &longs;till in her
heart &longs;he thought, &longs;urely, the&longs;e amiable characters,
the&longs;e intere&longs;ting &longs;cenes, are not all fiction. I &longs;hall certainly
at &longs;ome future period, meet with men and women
as amiable as the&longs;e are repre&longs;ented. She nourished
this idea in &longs;ilence, and dwelt on the delightful vision,
till at la&longs;t too fatally convinced, that to be perfect
was not compatible with mortality. She wept over
the errors of her fellow creatures, and lamented that
rea&longs;onable beings placed in a world abounding with
every comfort, &longs;hould ungratefully da&longs;h the cup of felicity
from their lips, and eagerly drink of that which
was &longs;trongly tinctured with gall. It is ea&longs;ily in our
own power to be happy, &longs;aid &longs;he; but to render ourselves
really mi&longs;erable, requires much art, contrivance
and &longs;olicitude; for, before we can be completely unhappy,
we mu&longs;t for&longs;ake the commandments of our all-wife
Creator; we mu&longs;t di&longs;tru&longs;t his merciful Providence,
and render our&longs;elves totally unworthy his heavenly protection.
But I am &longs;peaking of her maturer reflexions, and
forgetting that &longs;he is but ju&longs;t entered on the grand
theatre of life.—And to return:
The time was now nearly elap&longs;ed which Lady Mary
u&longs;ually &longs;pent in Lincoln&longs;hire, which was two months
before and one after Chri&longs;tmas, at which period &longs;he
enlivened the hearts of all Sir George's tenants, and
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made the &longs;mile of tranquillity &longs;it on the countenances
of age, and &longs;oftened the couch of pain and &longs;ickne&longs;s.
And is not this the real incen&longs;e to be offered at &longs;o
glorious a &longs;ea&longs;on? Will it not go up as a &longs;weet smellling
&longs;acrifice before the Mo&longs;t High? Oh! &longs;urely it is
the benevolent heart will ever be acceptable to him
who&longs;e heavenly benevolence led him to &longs;uffer an ignominious
death, that we might live for ever in glory unfading,
in bli&longs;s unchangeable.
It was with infinite pain that Rebecca parted from
her father; nor did he experience le&longs;s angui&longs;h. “God
pre&longs;erve you my child,” &longs;aid he embracing her, “remember
the happine&longs;s of your poor father depends on
your well doing.”
“Good bye, Rebecca,” &longs;aid the mother; “God
ble&longs;s you, child, be careful, circum&longs;pect, and wary;
&longs;u&longs;pect every one of a de&longs;ign on you till you are convinced
of the contrary. You mu&longs;t think all men knaves,
and all women treacherous, and then you will avoid
many troubles. Tru&longs;t no one; keep your thoughts
to your&longs;elf if you are unhappy, bear your &longs;orrows in
&longs;ilence, for no one will pity you if you tell them; the
happy will only laugh at you, and the mi&longs;erable have
enough to do to feel for their own afflictions. If you
are happy, be &longs;ilent al&longs;o; for if you boa&longs;t of your felicity,
&longs;ome will ridicule the &longs;ource from whence it follows,
and others will, from envy, endeavour to interrupt
that happine&longs;s they cannot them&longs;elves enjoy.
Keep your thoughts to your&longs;elf; have few acquaintances,
fewer intimates, and no bo&longs;om friends. Friendship
is a pretty word, but there is no &longs;uch thing as a
true friend exi&longs;ting in the world. Remember what I
&longs;ay; the world is full of deceit, and &longs;ilence and suspicion
are the only things to &longs;ecure you from its effects.”
“But &longs;u&longs;picion is
incompatible with Chri&longs;tianity,”
&longs;aid Rebecca; “we are taught to `judge not that we
be not judged.”
Mrs. Littleton looked at her daughter with an air of
&longs;urpri&longs;e, but remained &longs;ilent. Lady Mary pre&longs;&longs;ed her
hand, and led her to the chai&longs;e. Rebecca bowed to
her parents, and before &longs;he was from di&longs;tance deprived
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of the plea&longs;ure of beholding them, the tears had effectually
ob&longs;cured them from her view.
Their journey was plea&longs;ant, and the novelty of the
objects &longs;he encountered, in a &longs;hort time diverted her
ideas, and before &longs;he arrived at Twickenham &longs;he was
quite tranquil and happy; nay, &longs;he was even more
cheerful than Lady Mary had ever &longs;een her before.
It was late when they alighted; but the elegance of
the hou&longs;e, the extent of the gardens, and the ta&longs;te in
which they were laid out, was full and plea&longs;urable
amu&longs;ement to Rebecca the next morning. Her own
apartment commanded a view of the Thames and its
delightful banks; &longs;he thought &longs;he &longs;hould never be weary
of &longs;tanding at the window. “I will write my father
an ample account of this charming place,” &longs;aid &longs;he;
but when &longs;he had rambled over all the plea&longs;ure grounds,
alas! thought &longs;he, it will be impo&longs;&longs;ible to give him an
adequate idea of its beauties. I mu&longs;t even reque&longs;t him
to come next &longs;ummer, and judge of it him&longs;elf.
For eight months, happine&longs;s, pure, unallayed happiness,
took up her abode in the bo&longs;om of Rebecca.
She read, &longs;he worked, walked, or played on her lute
alternately, as inclination led, and during that time &longs;he
had been confined to her apartment but twice, once
when Lady O&longs;&longs;iter vi&longs;ited her mother, and once when
Sir George was expected to dinner.
CHAP. VI. WHAT MIGHT BE EXPECTED.
Time now flew on the &longs;ofte&longs;t pinions with Rebecca;
every ri&longs;ing day brought increa&longs;e to her happiness;
the tenderne&longs;s and affection of Lady Mary hourly
increa&longs;ed; &longs;he had di&longs;covered in her gentle companion
great ta&longs;te for mu&longs;ic, and a dawning of genius for
drawing.
“The&longs;e are talents,” &longs;aid her lady&longs;hip, “that ever
afford a fund of innocent amu&longs;ement to the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;or,
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and it is certainly my duty, by cultivating them, to
compen&longs;ate, in &longs;ome mea&longs;ure, for the cheerful acquiescense
Rebecca &longs;hows to every de&longs;ire of mine, particularly
in &longs;ubmitting, without repining, to a reclu&longs;e
life, which mo&longs;t young per&longs;ons, at her time of life, and
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of her beauty and vivacity, would think cruel
in the extreme.”
Lady Mary had received an education befitting her
rank, and had not neglected the means of improving a
very elevated under&longs;tanding, and a bright natural genius,
by refu&longs;ing attention to the ample means of cultivation
which fortune held out; on the contrary &longs;he
made her&longs;elf mi&longs;tre&longs;s of the fine arts, mu&longs;ic and painting,
and to the mo&longs;t delicate and judicious choice of
the works of fancy, &longs;he added an exten&longs;ive knowledge
of hi&longs;tory and natural philo&longs;ophy.
To her, therefore, the cultivation of &longs;uch a mind as
Rebecca's was a &longs;ource of the mo&longs;t refined plea&longs;ure.
She &longs;aw its beauties daily expand under her attentive
care, with the &longs;ame delight as the lapidary di&longs;covers the
cru&longs;t that envelopes the rough diamond give way to
his labours, and the ine&longs;timable jewel a&longs;&longs;uming a degree
of brilliancy that promi&longs;es well to reward his indu&longs;try.
But, though the talents of Rebecca were thus ea&longs;ily
drawn forth, and the ru&longs;ticity of her manners began to
a&longs;&longs;ume a more poli&longs;hed air, it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to alter the
&longs;implicity and purity of her mind. Whenever her generous
patrone&longs;s endeavoured to give her &longs;ome idea of
the manners of the world, &longs;he manife&longs;ted &longs;uch a degree
of &longs;weet incredibility, when informed of vices of which
&longs;he had no idea, and was &longs;o ready to frame excu&longs;es for
errors of which &longs;he imagined few could be guilty, and
none intentionally, that Lady Mary was at length assured
that nothing but experience would convince the
innocent maid, but that every bo&longs;om was as free from
guilt and treachery as her own.
“My dear Rebecca,” &longs;aid &longs;he to her one day, “I
will no longer labour to inform you of the vices and follies
of mankind, the total ignorance of which &longs;eems to
con&longs;titute your chief felicity. Long, my &longs;weet girl,
may you retain that primitive &longs;implicity of heart; it
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&longs;hall be my care to leave you at my death an independence,
to prevent your charming un&longs;u&longs;pecting nature
from buying experience at &longs;o dear a rate, as an intercourse
with, or a dependence upon, the &longs;miles of an
unfeeling, misjudging world.”
Thus Lady Mary determined; but, alas! like too
many others, &longs;he deferred, adding this codicil to her
will from day to day, till a &longs;udden accident put it intirely
out of her power.
The autumn was now advancing, and Rebecca looked
forward to the time when &longs;he &longs;hould revi&longs;it her native
village. “And how will my dear father be delighted,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “to &longs;ee and hear my improvements? To be
&longs;ure there is no harp&longs;ichord in his cottage; but he will
&longs;urely come to the Park, and then I will &longs;urpri&longs;e him
by playing &longs;ome of his favourite airs: my mother too,
I will reque&longs;t Lady Mary to let me give her that piece
of grey lu&longs;tring &longs;he &longs;o kindly brought me from town la&longs;t
week. I will buy her al&longs;o a new cloak and bonnet,
&longs;he will be the gaye&longs;t of all our neighbours next winter;”
then taking out her port folio, &longs;he &longs;elected
of her be&longs;t drawings, and, in imagination, arranged
them round her father's little ru&longs;tic parlour.
Lady Mary was that morning gone to Wind&longs;or on a
vi&longs;it to an old acquaintance, and Rebecca, having
amu&longs;ed her&longs;elf in her own apartment &longs;ome time, in the
manner already mentioned, at length took up her lute,
and opening a window which looked into a retired part
of the garden, and into which darted the mild rays of
a September's &longs;un. She tuned her in&longs;trument, and began
&longs;inging the following little &longs;ong, which &longs;he had
learned but a few days before; it was of con&longs;equence a
favourite from its novelty more than from its real beauty.
Aurora, lovely, blooming fair!
Unbar'd the ea&longs;tern &longs;kies;
While many a &longs;oft pelucid tear
Ran trickling from her eyes.
Onward &longs;he came with heart-felt-glee
Leading the dancing hours;
For tho' &longs;he wept, &longs;he &longs;mil'd to &longs;ee
Her tears refre&longs;h the flow'rs.
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Phœbus, who long her charms admir'd,
With bright refulgent ray,
Came forth, and, as the maid retir'd,
He ki&longs;s'd her tears away.
So youth advances, mild &longs;erene,
Our childi&longs;h &longs;orrows cea&longs;e;
While hopes, gay &longs;un-&longs;hine, guilds the &longs;cene,
And all is joy and peace.
While Rebecca was &longs;inging, &longs;he had been &longs;o intent
on her mu&longs;ic, that &longs;he had not ob&longs;erved any body enter
the part of the garden to which her window looked;
but on laying down her lute, and turning her eyes that
way, &longs;he perceived a young gentleman, in a riding
dre&longs;s, leaning again&longs;t a tree, and gazing intently at her.
The natural ro&longs;es that played on her cheeks were heightened
by this di&longs;covery. She aro&longs;e ha&longs;tily, and was
going to pull down the window, when the young gentleman
advancing, with a look of the mo&longs;t earne&longs;t supplication:
Stay one moment, angelic creature!” &longs;aid he,
tell me if what I now behold is reality or an il
? Art thou a &longs;pirit of light, or the lovelie&longs;t human
being the earth bears?”
“Sir!” replied Rebecca, with a voice and look of
&longs;urpri&longs;e, “did you &longs;peak to me?” and &longs;he involuntarily
&longs;u&longs;pended the hand that was rai&longs;ed to &longs;hut the window.
“Oh! &longs;peak again, thou faire&longs;t of thy &longs;ex,” &longs;aid he,
“Tell me, art thou, indeed, a mortal?”
“To be &longs;ure I am,” &longs;aid Rebecca, &longs;miling; “what
el&longs;e &longs;hould I be?”
“And do&longs;t thou live here?”
“Sometimes,” replied Rebecca, with more re&longs;erve,
beginning to perceive the impropriety &longs;he was guilty of
in talking to a &longs;tranger.
“And cannot you either de&longs;cend into the garden, or
&longs;uffer me to vi&longs;it the apartment that contains &longs;o much
loveline&longs;s?”
“I can do neither,” &longs;aid Rebecca gravely, and &longs;he
again rai&longs;ed her hand to draw down the &longs;a&longs;h.
“Oh! &longs;tay an in&longs;tant,” &longs;aid he, “and tell me, all
angel as thou art! Did thy heart ever vibrate with the
&longs;oft emotions of love?”
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“Sure, &longs;ure, it has! el&longs;e I were ungrateful,” &longs;he
replied, innocently.—“I love my parents; I love
my lady: yes, heaven is my witne&longs;s, how much, how
fervently, I love her!” She laid her hand on her
heart, and rai&longs;ed her eyes, with a look of grateful affection:
“Enchanting &longs;implicity! but do you love
no other?”
“Heaven forbid! I love all mankind.”
“But no one in particular.”
“No.” Her uplifted hand fell from the &longs;a&longs;h, and
her eyes were ca&longs;t, fir&longs;t on the young gentleman, then
on the ground.
“Could you love me, &longs;weete&longs;t?”
“Methinks not, for you are rudely inqui&longs;itive.”
“But you will not hate me?”
“Hate you, Sir! No; you never did me any harm,
and if you had, I know it is my duty to forgive you,
and pray for your happine&longs;s.”
“Then you will not think of me with indifference?”
“That would be impo&longs;&longs;ible,” &longs;aid &longs;he, in a softened
accent as &longs;he pulled down the window: but he
heard not what &longs;he &longs;aid, and being no longer able to
gaze on her beauties, or li&longs;ten to her voice, he retired
from the garden in a &longs;tate of mind by no means enviable.
CHAP. VII. DEBATE ON MATRIMONY.
Sir George Worthy was a young man of violent
pa&longs;&longs;ions. At a very early age he had been made
his own ma&longs;ter, and, like mo&longs;t young men of large independent
fortune, from unlimited indulgence was led
to believe, that the mo&longs;t trifling occurrence which
thwarted his inclination, was an in&longs;upportable affliction;
it was therefore a very great mortification to him
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to be obliged to quit the garden in &longs;uch a &longs;tate of suspence,
e&longs;pecially as he did not know who the young
lady was: however he re&longs;olved to &longs;tay at his mother's
hou&longs;e a few days (a favour which he had never deigned
before &longs;ince the death of his father) for he imagined
this fair vi&longs;itant would of cour&longs;e make her appearance
at dinner, and that after the fir&longs;t formal introduction,
he &longs;hould have the &longs;uperlative &longs;atisfaction of enjoying
her company in an unre&longs;erved family way.
When Lady Mary arrived, &longs;he was much &longs;urpri&longs;ed to
&longs;ee her &longs;on in the drawing-room; but as &longs;he had not the
remote&longs;t idea of his having been arrived long, after the
fir&longs;t &longs;alutations were pa&longs;t, &longs;he went to her own apartment,
and di&longs;patched Mrs. Harley, her woman, to inform
Rebecca, that as &longs;he had company, &longs;he would
order her dinner to be &longs;ent up, and &longs;hould not expect
to &longs;ee her in the dining parlour.
Harley was not &longs;atisfied with &longs;imply delivering her
me&longs;&longs;age, but al&longs;o delivered her own &longs;entiments on the
&longs;ubject.
“Heaven keep me from pride,” &longs;aid &longs;he. “One mu&longs;t
be blind, indeed, not to perceive the cau&longs;e of my lady's
confining you in this manner: mercy on us, as if fle&longs;h
and blood without a title was not as good as fle&longs;h and
blood with one! Marry come up, and were I to be
judge, I think you are to the full as good as Sir
George, mayhap better. All is not gold that glitters.
I warrant ye, if Sir George was once to &longs;ee your &longs;weet
face, he would think a title well be&longs;towed.”
“I do not under&longs;tand you, my good Harley,”
&longs;aid Rebecca, with a look of the utmo&longs;t &longs;implicity.
“Oh! it is all very well, Mi&longs;s; if you are &longs;atisfied
I am; only I &longs;ay it is a &longs;hame to &longs;hut you up &longs;o
whenever Sir George comes.”
“Sir George!” cried Rebecca, eagerly; “is Sir
George Worthy at Twickenham?” “Yes, Mi&longs;s
Becky, he is and that is the rea&longs;on.”—
“Hold, Harley; my lady's commands are &longs;ufficient
for me, without any rea&longs;on alledged; but pray how
long has Sir George been here?”
“He arrived immediately on my lady's leaving
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home, and amu&longs;ed him&longs;elf in the garden till a few moments
before her return.”
“'Tis very well,” &longs;aid Rebecca: “Your mi&longs;tre&longs;s
perhaps, may want you. Mrs. Harley, pray do not
let me detain you.”
Harley muttered &longs;omething about in&longs;en&longs;ible, and left
the room.
Lady Mary, having adju&longs;ted her dre&longs;s, repaired to
the dining parlour, and &longs;ent the butler to inform her
&longs;on that dinner was &longs;erved. With a palpitating heart
Sir George obeyed the &longs;ummons; but how great was
his &longs;urpri&longs;e and di&longs;appointment, on entering the room,
to &longs;ee no per&longs;on there but his mother, and the cloth
laid but for two! His chagrin betrayed it&longs;elf in his
countenance.
“Do we dine by our&longs;elves madam?” &longs;aid he somewhat
confu&longs;ed.
“That is an odd que&longs;tion, George,” &longs;aid her ladyship.
“I thought you was acquainted with the recluse
life I lead, and therefore could not expect to meet
much company at my table.”
“Why that is true,” &longs;aid he, endeavouring at an air
of indifference; “but I thought &longs;ometimes a neighbour
might drop in.”
He plainly perceived there was &longs;omething of a mystery,
and was too much a man of the world not to veil,
as much as po&longs;&longs;ible, the ardent de&longs;ire he felt to penetrate
it; he therefore partook of the repa&longs;t provided
for his mother, and when the cloth was removed, informed
her he intended &longs;pending a week or ten days
with her, previous to her departure for Lincolu&longs;hire.
Lady Mary was rather &longs;urpri&longs;ed at this propo&longs;al;
but having long wi&longs;hed for an opportunity to conver&longs;e
with her &longs;on on a &longs;ubject near her heart, namely, an
union that had been for many years thought of between
Lady Eleanor Harcourt, her brother's only child, and
Sir George, for whom he had propo&longs;ed to beg the title
of Earl of Chatterton, in rever&longs;ion, he being the only
male branch remaining of the family: &longs;he therefore
&longs;atisfied her&longs;elf with &longs;ending an affectionate note to
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Rebecca, briefly informing her of the cau&longs;e that would
occa&longs;ion their &longs;eparation for a few days, and a&longs;&longs;uring
her &longs;he would vi&longs;it her apartment the next morning, if
opportunity offered.
Rebecca &longs;ighed as &longs;he read the note; but &longs;he flattered
her&longs;elf it was a &longs;igh of plea&longs;ure, for the happine&longs;s
her benefactre&longs;s would enjoy in the company of her
&longs;on.
In the cour&longs;e of the evening Lady Mary introduced
the &longs;ubject neare&longs;t her heart, and endeavoured to divine
the real opinion Sir George entertained of his cou&longs;in's
per&longs;on, merit and accompli&longs;hments.
He frankly acknowledged her a very amiable woman,
a woman every way calculated to make the marriage
&longs;tate happy: “But,” continued he, “pardon me, my
dear madam, if I &longs;ay, I do not think my&longs;elf, by any
means worthy the hand of &longs;uch a woman. I am wild,
and have &longs;een &longs;o much of elegant refined beauty, that
it is no longer an object of admiration. I can look on
my cou&longs;in Eleanor, all lovely as &longs;he is, without the
lea&longs;t emotion, except what proceeds from the affection
I bear her as a near and worthy relation; but this is
not the kind of affection nece&longs;&longs;ary to form a happy
marriage. My heart has ever been unmoved by real
pa&longs;&longs;ionate love, and I do verily believe, if ever it is
en&longs;nared, it will be by the pure charms of nature, unadulterated
by art: I declare to you the enchanting
naiveté of unaffected innocence would be to me a thousand
times more captivating, than all the &longs;plendid
charms of an elegant accompli&longs;hed woman of fa&longs;hion.”
It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to de&longs;cribe the a&longs;toni&longs;hment of Lady
Mary upon this unexpected declaration of her &longs;on; it
kept her for &longs;ome moments &longs;ilent.—“It is well,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, mentally, “that I took tho&longs;e precautions in
regard to Rebecca; &longs;he is exactly the woman to &longs;uit
his ta&longs;te, and I &longs;hould have experienced the mortification
of &longs;eeing my &longs;on reject a title and &longs;plendid fortune,
and ally him&longs;elf to ob&longs;curity.”
“Perhaps, George,” &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;miling, you have
&longs;omewhere met with a woman whom you think possesses
tho&longs;e captivating charms.”
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“Oh! no,” &longs;aid he, carele&longs;sly; but why &longs;hould we
talk on this &longs;ubject now? Eleanor and my&longs;elf are both
young enough yet. Let her &longs;ee a little more of the
world; it is more than probable I may not be the man
of her choice.”
“She will never have her father's con&longs;ent to marry
any other; nor do I think he would ever forgive a &longs;tep
of that nature; nor can I &longs;ay, George, that I &longs;hould
ea&longs;ily overlook your preferring any other woman to
Eleanor.”
“Upon my &longs;oul, my dear mother, this is a mo&longs;t ridiculous
idea! In the name of common &longs;en&longs;e, why are
two per&longs;ons, who experience nothing more than indifference
towards each other, to be chained together,
and &longs;eal their own mi&longs;ery, to gratify the inclinations
of tho&longs;e, who, though they have a right to our utmo&longs;t
re&longs;pect and obedience, a&longs;&longs;ume an undue authority when
they endeavour to controul us in a point &longs;o very delicate
as the choice of a companion for life. I &longs;ee you
are offended, my dear mother; let me entreat you to
pardon my &longs;incerity. Believe me, your happine&longs;s is
the fir&longs;t wi&longs;h of my heart, and to promote it &longs;hall be
the whole &longs;tudy of my life. It is to prevent you from
future pain that I &longs;peak thus, for, alas! what angui&longs;h
mu&longs;t &longs;eize the heart of a parent, who, having forced a
beloved child into a loathed marriage, &longs;ees him plunged
in mi&longs;ery, nay, perhaps, in guilt, from which &longs;he
has no power to extricate him: but let us not part in
anger,” continued he, ri&longs;ing, and taking his mother's
hand.
“Be a&longs;&longs;ured, &longs;hould inclination ever prompt me to
an union with Lady Eleanor, every tran&longs;port I experience
will be heightened by the thought that it increa&longs;ed
your felicity; but, &longs;hould it not, let not your displeasure
embitter the life of a &longs;on who loves you with the
true&longs;t affection.”
He then ki&longs;&longs;ed her cheek, and wi&longs;hed her a good
night.
“He talks rea&longs;onably,” &longs;aid Lady Mary, as he left
the room; “but it would grieve me to &longs;ee the family of
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Harcourt &longs;ink to oblivion, when it is in his power to
perpetuate both its name and title.”
CHAP. VIII. FEMALE HEROISM.
Sir George had previou&longs;ly given his valet Le Brun
an order to make inquiries obliquely concerning the
fair reclu&longs;e, whom he had &longs;een at the window in the
garden, and now retired with the eager expectation of
hearing &longs;omething of her.
“Well, Le Brun,” &longs;aid he, “what news? Can you
learn whether the fair &longs;pirit of the garden haunts it continually,
or only &longs;ometimes?”
“Oh, Mon&longs;ieur,” &longs;aid Le Brun, “I did a&longs;k Mademoiselle
Harley. Oh! &longs;he be one ver pret voman;
&longs;he never refu&longs;e me any thing. She be von jolie petite
fille.”
“Good Mon&longs;ieur,” &longs;aid Sir George, “defer the
account of your own &longs;ucce&longs;s till another opportunity,
and inform me of what you have heard.”
“Dat be vat I vas intend, my Lor. Mademoi&longs;elle
Harley tell me dat my Lady, your moder, keep von
ver charmante demoi&longs;ell, to play, to read, to &longs;ing to
her ven &longs;he be alone; but ven your onor, or any company,
be com, my Lady do &longs;hut her up.”
“And who does Harley &longs;ay &longs;he is?”
“Oh! ma &longs;oi; &longs;he be de daughter of a pauvre old
man, who vas one &longs;oldier. He live in Lincoln&longs;hire;
de call her Mademoi&longs;elle Rebecca—.”
“And does &longs;he con&longs;tantly occupy tho&longs;e apartments
in the &longs;outh wing?”
“Ouè, Mon&longs;ieur, ouè, and &longs;he valk every morning
in de garden by de time de &longs;un be up.”
This was enough for Sir George. He di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ed Le
Brun, and determined to ri&longs;e by times him&longs;elf, and
join Rebecca in the garden.
In the mean time Rebecca's thoughts were fully
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employed in reflecting on the unexpected incident
which had thrown her in the way of the very man
whom it was her intere&longs;t to wi&longs;h to avoid. “It was
unfortunate,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “very unfortunate, that I
&longs;hould have opened the window at that time; if Lady
Mary was to know I had &longs;een and conver&longs;ed with her
&longs;on, it would make her very unhappy, and yet how
&longs;hall I ever be able to face her after having, though involuntarily,
tran&longs;gre&longs;&longs;ed the only re&longs;triction &longs;he thought
fit to lay upon me? Will it not be be&longs;t to watch the
moment when &longs;he retires to her apartment, to go to her,
candidly confe&longs;s the accidental rencounter, and endeavour
to deprecate the anger I mu&longs;t otherwi&longs;e expect to
encounter? Yes, it will certainly be right; my kind
generous Lady Mary &longs;hall never have occa&longs;ion to accu&longs;e
me of want of &longs;incerity.”
When &longs;he had formed this re&longs;olution, her thoughts
again reverted to the elegant accompli&longs;hed manner, and
fine per&longs;on of Sir George, again in idea &longs;he recalled
every &longs;entence he had uttered, and innocently indulged
the fa&longs;cinating reflexion un&longs;u&longs;pecting of the consequence.
The clock had ju&longs;t &longs;truck eleven when Rebecca heard
the foot&longs;tep of Lady Mary on the &longs;tairs. She heard
her enter her dre&longs;&longs;ing room, and then, with palpitating
heart, pre&longs;ented her&longs;elf at the door of the apartment,
and, by a gentle tap, demanded admittance.
Mrs. Harley opened the door; pale, trembling, her
eyes ca&longs;t on the ground, the agitated Rebecca entered,
and courte&longs;ying, in a manner in which the &longs;oul &longs;eemed
to bow more than the body, attempted an apology for
the untimely intru&longs;ion.
“Come in, my love,” &longs;aid Lady Mary, then looking
at her face &longs;he continued, “Are you not well, Rebecca,
or has any thing alarmed you?”
Your goodne&longs;s, Madam, overpowers me,” &longs;aid Rebecca
&longs;eating her&longs;elf; “my mind is not quite at ca&longs;e,
and, if you have a few moments to &longs;pare, I &longs;hould be
glad to communicate &longs;omething to you, without any
witne&longs;s to our conver&longs;ation.”
“Harley,” &longs;aid her lady&longs;hip, “I &longs;hall not go to hed
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ju&longs;t yet, and will ring when I want you. (Harley retired)
“And now, my dear, what is this mighty secret?”
taking Rebecca's hand.
“I am come my deare&longs;t Lady,” &longs;aid &longs;he, ri&longs;ing “to
inform you, that I have, though unde&longs;ignedly, broken
your injunctions, and incurred your di&longs;plea&longs;ure: let me,
therefore Madam, expiate my offence, by being banished
from this delightful place, and from your truly
valuable &longs;ociety. Send me back, Madam, to my humble
home; but, oh! I conjure you, do not deprive me
of your friend&longs;hip and good opinion, which I value infinitely
more than any other earthly good.”
“You &longs;urpri&longs;e me my dear child! I am at a lo&longs;s to
comprehend your meaning. From the whole tenor of
your conduct, &longs;ince you have been here, I am convinced,
that, if you have offended me, the fault was involuntary,
indeed. Come, come, do not look &longs;o grave:
I &longs;uppo&longs;e this amazing &longs;ault, when revealed, will be
di&longs;covered a very trifle. You have let my favourite canary
out of its cage, or you have broke one of the large
India jars.”
“Ah! my dear Lady, wor&longs;e, infinitely wor&longs;e, I
have &longs;een Sir George. Now, pray do not look angry;
indeed, he is the fir&longs;t and only per&longs;on I have &longs;een &longs;ince
my arrival here; nor did I &longs;eek the interview.”
“Do not alarm your&longs;elf thus, my love,” &longs;aid Lady
Mary, obliging her to &longs;it down again. “Come, compose
your &longs;pirits, and tell me &longs;incerely how it happened,
what pa&longs;&longs;ed between you, and what you think of my
&longs;on?”
“Oh! I think him,” &longs;aid Rebecca, the mo&longs;t engaging
young man I ever &longs;aw; he has &longs;uch a manly
look, yet &longs;uch a &longs;oft air and voice.”
“Indeed!” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip, gravely, “and pray
what might he &longs;ay to you?”
“Ah! Madam, it would be vanity in me to repeat
all he &longs;aid, he &longs;poke &longs;o many fine things.”
“It is well Rebecca, I &longs;ee you &longs;till retain that candour
and &longs;incerity for which I ever loved you. I am
fully &longs;atisfied that this interview was not &longs;ought on your
&longs;ide, nor can I &longs;uppo&longs;e it was on his. You &longs;eem to
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entertain a very favourable idea of Sir George, and I
make no doubt but he does the &longs;ame of you; but do
not from this indulge any vain hopes that you can ever
be any thing to each other. Young men of a certain
rank in life, do not frequently match them&longs;elves with
their inferiors, yet they will leave no art une&longs;&longs;ayed to
awaken &longs;en&longs;ibility in the heart of every woman whom
they affect to admire. Will you make me one promi&longs;e,
Rebecca, and, without re&longs;erve, ever remember to keep
it inviolate.”
“Dear Madam, do you, can you, doubt me?
Speak your commands; I am &longs;ure they will not be severe,
and when I di&longs;obey you, from that moment may
peace and joy be &longs;trangers to my bo&longs;om.”
“Then promi&longs;e me, my dear, that you will never,
directly, nor indirectly, li&longs;ten to any overtures of love
which Sir George may make, or give him the lea&longs;t encouragement;
and while you keep the promi&longs;e &longs;acred,
may every earthly happine&longs;s &longs;urround you; and &longs;hould
you ever feel inclined to break it, reflect it is the only
thing which you can do to wound the peace of a woman
who loves you as her own child.”
“Then hear me, Madam,” &longs;aid Rebecca, “while
I &longs;olemnly prote&longs;t, that never, while I retain my &longs;en&longs;es,
will I li&longs;ten to any profe&longs;&longs;ion of love whatever from your
&longs;on. The grateful affection I bear towards your Ladyship
will prompt me to keep this vow inviolable, had
I no other motive; but, my dear Lady, I have two
powerful rea&longs;ons for never infringing it. The fir&longs;t, I
tru&longs;t you will believe, is an invincible repugnance inherent
in my bo&longs;om to every thing derogatory to the
dignity and honour of my &longs;ex, and which will urge me
to treat with &longs;corn every overture that tended to the
injury of either:—And for the other, pardon me, Madam,
I feel my inferiority, nay, feel it &longs;o powerfully,
that I will never meanly creep into a family who would
think them&longs;elves di&longs;honoured by the alliance.”
“My dear good girl,” &longs;aid Lady Mary, embracing
her, “I honour you for this &longs;pirited reply. You
would not di&longs;honour any family; but I never was a
friend to unequal matches; they are &longs;eldom productive
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of much felicity; be&longs;ides, my &longs;on is the de&longs;tined husband
of another.”
Rebecca heard her in &longs;ilence, &longs;ighed, and was preparing
to leave the apartment. “Stay, my love,”
&longs;aid Lady Mary, “though you have charmed me by
the frankne&longs;s and candour of your behaviour, I am not
&longs;atisfied, but that George will attempt to &longs;ee you again;
&longs;hall I reque&longs;t my dear girl will keep intirely in her
apartment to-morrow, and avoid going to the windows,
and in the evening a chai&longs;e &longs;hall be ordered to the back
garden gate. My own man James &longs;hall attend you,
and you may proceed one &longs;tage on your journey towards
Lincoln&longs;hire that night. James will take particular
care of you, and &longs;ee you &longs;afe at your father's hou&longs;e,
where you can pay them a &longs;hort vi&longs;it till I join you,
which will be in about three weeks time.” She then
put a heavy pur&longs;e into her hand, bade her con&longs;ider it
as her own, and then wi&longs;hed her a good night: but
calling her back, as &longs;he was about to leave the room,
&longs;he de&longs;ired her to be careful what &longs;he &longs;aid to Harley,
and in particular to avoid mentioning her intended
journey.
“Is it pride?” &longs;aid Rebecca, as &longs;he retired to re&longs;t:
“Or is it a tender wi&longs;h for my felicity, that actuates
Lady Mary? Surely it is the latter. Her liberality,
her conde&longs;cending affection, all tend to convince me
it is my happine&longs;s alone &longs;he is &longs;tudious to pre&longs;erve:
and never &longs;hall it be &longs;aid that Rebecca Littleton, like
the ungrateful viper, &longs;tung the friendly bo&longs;om that
warmed her into life; for, &longs;urely, the cultivation of
our mental faculties, the enlargement of our ideas, is
a &longs;econd, nay a better life than what we receive from
nature, and this life I have received from my revered
benefactre&longs;s. What delightful &longs;ources of plea&longs;urable
amu&longs;ement has &longs;he opened to my view! How inestimable
the benefits I have received from her hand! Then
her thoughts reverting to Sir George, &longs;he continued,
“Surely the &longs;on of &longs;uch a mother mu&longs;t be all that is
good and amiable, and it is not infringing my vow to
love him as a brother. Ah! how happy will be the
partner he &longs;hall choo&longs;e, nay, that he has cho&longs;en; for
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did not his mother &longs;ay his de&longs;tiny was fixed? May their
felicity be as la&longs;ting as their lives! May every earthly
ble&longs;&longs;ing crown them! May heaven &longs;hower down its
bounties on their heads, that their joys may render
completely happy the heart of my kind, my generous
Lady Mary!”
Then lifting up her &longs;oul, in its nightly addre&longs;s, to
the Throne of Grace, &longs;he blended the name of Sir
George with that of his mother, and &longs;unk into that
peaceful kind of &longs;lumber, which only innocence, like
her's, can enjoy.
CHAP. IX. MORTALITY.
Small was the re&longs;t Sir George enjoyed that
night, and &longs;oon as the morning peeped into his
chamber he left his bed, and repaired to the part of the
garden where Le Brun had informed him Rebecca usually
walked; but vain was this early attention, vain
the anxious expectation in which he waited, the goddess
of his morning adoration did not make her appearance,
nay, even &longs;o &longs;crupulous was &longs;he of her Lady's
injunctions, that &longs;he kept the window &longs;hutters clo&longs;ed on
the &longs;ide next the garden, and only opened one that
looked on a gra&longs;s plot that faced Lady Mary's apartment.
Till near nine o'clock Sir George walked in the
hope of &longs;eeing Rebecca; but finding tho&longs;e hopes frustrated,
he returned, highly di&longs;appointed, to his apartment,
and prepared to meet his mother at breakfa&longs;t.
“She has not been out, Le Brun,” &longs;aid he, as his
valet was tying his hair: “I have walked three hours
for nothing.”
“Oh! Mon&longs;ieur vill have bon &longs;tomache to his dejeunner.”
“Damn the breakfa&longs;t,” &longs;aid Sir George, “What
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could keep the lovely girl from walking as u&longs;ual this
morning?”
“She be no awake yet,” &longs;aid Le Brun. “Mademoiselle
Harley tell me &longs;he no ring her bell yet.”
“Then Harley attends her?”
“She vant ver lit attendance; &longs;he be von amiable.”
“But Harley an&longs;wers her bell?”
“Ouè, Mon&longs;ieur, ouè, no oder go to her chamber.”
Sir George &longs;tarted from his &longs;eat, wrote a few ha&longs;ty
lines, and bidding Le Brun give them to Harley with
five guineas, de&longs;ired they might be delivered into the
hands of Rebecca.
When Harley attended our heroine at breakfa&longs;t, &longs;he
laid the letter on the table.
“And what is this, Mrs. Harley?” &longs;aid &longs;he, taking
it up.
“A letter, Mi&longs;s, which I was de&longs;ired to deliver into
your hands.”
“From whom does it come?”
“A &longs;weet rich gentleman, my dear young Lady,
who, having once &longs;een you, wi&longs;hes again to enjoy that
&longs;atisfaction.”
“From Sir George Worthy?”
Harley court&longs;eyed a&longs;&longs;ent.
“Well then, my good Harley, take it to your Lady,
de&longs;ire her to read it, and dictate the an&longs;wer &longs;he
would wi&longs;h me to &longs;end; or &longs;tay, I will enclo&longs;e it in a
blank cover, and do you deliver it to the per&longs;on who
intru&longs;ted it to your care.”
“Why, &longs;urely,” &longs;aid Harley, “&longs;urely, Mi&longs;s Becky,
you do not reflect on what you are doing! Sir George
is a man of fortune, a hand&longs;ome, agreeable man.”
“His beauty to me, Mrs. Harley, would be his
lea&longs;t recommendation: be&longs;ides, I hope ever to make
it an invariable rule of my conduct to receive no letters
from men, without the &longs;anction of tho&longs;e who are better
judges of what is proper than I can be: but, as it
will be needle&longs;s to trouble my Lady with this, give me
that &longs;heet of paper from the writing de&longs;k.”
Harley gave her the paper; &longs;he folded up the letter,
&longs;ealed it, and gave it to her.
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“But you have not directed it, Mi&longs;s.”
“There is no nece&longs;&longs;ity for directing it. Do you deliver
it to the per&longs;on who gave it to your care.”
“Ah! Mi&longs;s, I think you will repent, for Le Brun
tells me Sir George loves you to di&longs;traction. He has
been walking in the garden the&longs;e three hours in hopes
of meeting with you.”
“I am va&longs;tly obliged to him,” &longs;aid Rebecca, smiling,
while her cheeks a&longs;&longs;umed a deeper glow, and her
eyes a brighter lu&longs;tre.”
“But you do not pity him, though his heart is almost
breaking!”
“I do pity him, Harley, indeed, I do; and if he
were poorer, and I were richer—.”
“Ah! Mi&longs;s, Love levels all di&longs;tinctions. Sir George
would think him&longs;elf the per&longs;on obliged. He told Le
Brun you were the only woman he ever thought on with
partiality.”
“Mrs. Harley,” &longs;aid Rebecca, opening a drawer
of a &longs;mall cabinet, “do me the favour to accept the&longs;e
few yards of lace; I never had an opportunity before
of giving you &longs;ome &longs;mall token of my gratitude for
your kind attention to me &longs;ince I have been in this family.
But, good Mrs. Harley, you mu&longs;t never talk to
me in this manner again. I beg you will not tell me
any thing that Le Brun &longs;ays; I have no de&longs;ire—that
is—it is not proper—I mu&longs;t not li&longs;ten to &longs;uch discourse.”
Harley, &longs;impering, withdrew, and the innocent
Rebecca little imagined &longs;he had betrayed a &longs;ecret which
&longs;he ought to have guarded with the utmo&longs;t care; nay,
&longs;he even did not think that her heart was the lea&longs;t interested
in Sir George's welfare, any otherwi&longs;e than, as
the &longs;on of her benefactre&longs;s, it was her duty to rejoice
in his felicity.
The remainder of the day Rebecca &longs;pent in arranging
her clothes, &c. for her journey; nor did &longs;he forget,
among her mu&longs;ick, to put the new &longs;ong, “It is
certainly extremely pretty,” and &longs;he &longs;ung it to her&longs;elf
all the day.
Towards evening Lady Mary rang for Harley.
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“Harley,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “I think you have a brother
at Wind&longs;or. I have ordered a chai&longs;e for Mi&longs;s Littleton
to take a ride this evening, therefore, if you like, you
may go with her. Be &longs;at down at your brother's and
&longs;tay all night. I will call for you to-morrow as I take
an airing.”
Harley, who little &longs;u&longs;pected the &longs;cheme that was in
agitation, readily embraced this opportunity of vi&longs;iting
her brother. She looked about for Le Brun, to inform
him of her intended ab&longs;ence; but Lady Mary had taken
care to &longs;end him out of the way.
Her Lady&longs;hip took a very affectionate leave of Rebecca,
told her James had received every nece&longs;&longs;ary order,
and again thanked her for the integrity of heart
&longs;he had &longs;o nobly &longs;hown in having no concealments from
her, and promi&longs;ed her that her friend&longs;hip, for her&longs;elf
and family, &longs;hould be manife&longs;ted, even after her death.
She then returned to the drawing room, and kept Sir
George engaged in conver&longs;ation till &longs;he imagined Rebecca
was departed.
Sir George, though mortified by the return of his
letter unopened, yet conceived great hopes from the
account Harley gave him of their conver&longs;ation, and determined
to watch carefully for an opportunity to &longs;ee
and per&longs;onally plead his own cau&longs;e to his fair en&longs;laver;
but he cautiou&longs;ly concealed the&longs;e thoughts from his mother,
whom he was far from imagining was, at that
very moment, counteracting all his &longs;chemes.
In the mean time Rebecca continued her journey,
and by noon, on the &longs;econd day of her departure, &longs;he
found her&longs;elf drawing very near her father's cottage.
“Ah!” &longs;aid &longs;he, “how &longs;urpri&longs;ed and delighted will
the dear old gentleman be to &longs;ee me arrive &longs;o unexpectedly;
nay, I think, even my mother will rejoice to
&longs;ee her child after &longs;o long an ab&longs;ence:” then, in idea,
&longs;he ran over all &longs;he had to relate to them. “And how
my father will applaud my conduct!” &longs;aid &longs;he, exultingly.
“Surely there can be no plea&longs;ure in this world
equal to the applau&longs;e of a parent whom we love, and
whom it has ever been our &longs;tudy to obey.”
The chai&longs;e drew up to the door. She looked towards
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the parlour window; no one appeared. “I am afraid
they are not at home,” &longs;aid &longs;he; but ca&longs;ting her eyes
up to the chamber, &longs;he &longs;aw the window curtains clo&longs;e
drawn. At that in&longs;tant Ruth, their faithful &longs;ervant,
appeared at the door.
“Oh! dear Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid Ruth, in a tone of &longs;orrow,
“I did not think you could have come &longs;o &longs;oon.”
“What is the matter?” cried Rebecca, &longs;pringing
from the chai&longs;e, and &longs;eizing the hand of Ruth, in
breathle&longs;s agitation.
“Your poor father!” &longs;aid the &longs;ervant.
“Oh, God! my father is dead!”
“No, my dear Mi&longs;s, not dead; but very—very ill.”
“Merciful heaven!” cried Rebecca, &longs;inking on her
knees, with upli&longs;ted hands and &longs;treaming eyes, “restore
him to my prayers, or let me not live to know
his lo&longs;s.”
The tran&longs;ition was &longs;o great, from plea&longs;ure to extreme
&longs;orrow, that &longs;he could no longer &longs;upport it, but
fainted in the arms of Ruth.
On her recovery &longs;he found her mother by her &longs;ide.
She threw her arms round her neck, wept audibly on
her bo&longs;om, but could not &longs;peak.
“Ah! child, you may well cry,” &longs;aid Mrs. Littleton,
“for your father is not expected to live one hour
after another.”
“Then lead me to him, dear mother; lead me to
him, that I may receive his ble&longs;&longs;ing, and catch his la&longs;t
figh. Ah! he mu&longs;t not die without a parting embrace
to his Rebecca.”
Mrs. Littleton made no reply, but proceeded &longs;lowly
up the &longs;tairs. Rebecca followed, and in a moment
found her&longs;elf by the bed-&longs;ide of her almo&longs;t expiring
father. He put forth his hand; &longs;he pre&longs;&longs;ed it to her
lips, and &longs;unk in &longs;peechle&longs;s agony on her knees.
“Do not lament thus, my dear child!” &longs;aid he
faintly: “Heaven's will be done. I tru&longs;t you have
found a protector in Lady Mary, and I &longs;hall go satistisfied
with that comfortable reflexion.”
“Protector! indeed,” cried Mrs. Littleton, peevisnly;
“heavy was the day when &longs;he left her home for
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the protection of &longs;trangers! I am &longs;ure you have never
been well &longs;ince. This illne&longs;s is all her fault. You
have done nothing but pine and mope about, and if
any thing happens it will all lay at her door; but &longs;he was
&longs;o eager for&longs;ooth to go, any where rather than home,
&longs;he was tired of the company of her old father and mother.”
“Do not, my dear love,” &longs;aid Mr. Littleton, “do
not embitter my la&longs;t moments by laying on the mind
of this poor girl more than &longs;he can bear. Behold her
angui&longs;h, and pity it. Do not attribute my illne&longs;s to &longs;o
wrong a cau&longs;e. My frame has long been decaying: I
felt it my&longs;elf, though I forbore to afflict your bo&longs;om by
mentioning my apprehen&longs;ion.”
“Oh! my father,” cried Rebecca; “I hope you
will recover. I hope—.”
“Do not deceive your&longs;elf, my dear; my di&longs;order is
a decay of nature, and a &longs;low nervous fever, which the
phy&longs;ician informed me ye&longs;terday it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to
remove. I then de&longs;ired your mother to &longs;end for you;
but tell me, my child, how is it po&longs;&longs;ible you can have
arrived &longs;o &longs;oon?”
“Alas!” replied Rebecca, “I did not know you
were ill till I arrived at the door. I came by my Lady's
de&longs;ire to &longs;pend a few weeks with you and my mother
before &longs;he comes into the country.”
“You have not offended her, Rebecca?” &longs;aid the
father.
“No indeed,” &longs;aid &longs;he, exultingly; “I am higher
in her e&longs;teem than ever.”
“Ah! &longs;o &longs;he may tell you,” cried Mrs. Littleton;
“but I will an&longs;wer for it &longs;he was tired of your company,
or &longs;he would never have &longs;ent you away before her;
&longs;o there is an end of your fine hopes, Mi&longs;s Becky.”
It was with the utmo&longs;t unea&longs;ine&longs;s that Rebecca beheld
her mother thus prejudiced again&longs;t her. She endeavoured
to recollect if any inadvertant expre&longs;&longs;ion, in
any of her letters, had given her cau&longs;e of offence; and,
in hopes to conciliate her good humour, &longs;he, in the
evening, opened her trunk, and pre&longs;ented her mother
with the &longs;ilk before-mentioned.
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She received it &longs;ullenly, and laying it down, without
&longs;carce deigning to look at it, &longs;aid, “This is no
time to think of fine clothes, child, though in my
heart I believe your thoughts never run on any thing
el&longs;e but dre&longs;s, and fa&longs;hion, and non&longs;en&longs;e.”
The truth was, that if Rebecca had a foible it was
a pa&longs;&longs;ion for fa&longs;hionable dre&longs;s; but this was never carried
to an extreme, and, though remarkably attentive
to the decoration of her per&longs;on, &longs;he was never fine or
tawdry.
This ill-timed reproach of her mother's filled her
eyes with tears, and &longs;he retired to bed, but not to re&longs;t,
her father's illne&longs;s, and the di&longs;tance &longs;he then was from
her benefactre&longs;s, were &longs;uch painful reflexions, that
&longs;leep was a &longs;tranger to her eyes till the morning began
to dawn, when &longs;he enjoyed a few hours of compo&longs;ed
&longs;lumber.
Mr. Littleton's di&longs;order daily increa&longs;ed. He found
his end nearly approaching, and frequently recommended
to his daughter to pre&longs;erve, after his death, the &longs;ame
dutiful re&longs;pect for her mother &longs;he had ever manife&longs;ted.
To Mrs. Littleton he did not fail to recommend a
tenderne&longs;s of behaviour, that might tend to invite the
confidence of Rebecca. “You are too har&longs;h with the
poor girl,” he would &longs;ay; “treat her kindly: I am
&longs;ure you will find her de&longs;erving of it.”
“I know her better than you do,” was the con&longs;tant
reply, “and I know &longs;he is an artful, de&longs;igning girl.”
Mr. Littleton could not believe any evil of his favourite,
and died in her arms on the fifth day after her
arrival, ble&longs;&longs;ing her with his la&longs;t breath.
CHAP. X. DISAPPOINTMENT.
Sir George had not really determined in his own
mind whether he would addre&longs;s Rebecca on an honourable
&longs;core, or merely endeavour to gain her
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affections, and then act as he &longs;hould find, from her manner
and di&longs;po&longs;itiou, &longs;he de&longs;erved.
That day and the next he waited patiently in the
hope of &longs;eeing her; but on the third, when Harley
returned, (for Lady Mary did not bring her home till
that time) how great was his &longs;urpri&longs;e and disappointment
to hear that Rebecca had been &longs;ent for into the
country to a relation that was ill; for Mrs. Littleton's
letter arriving the day following Rebecca's departure,
it &longs;erved as a &longs;ufficient apology for her ab&longs;ence, though
indeed, Lady Mary did not think proper to enter into
explanations with her woman, and rather mi&longs;led her,
by mentioning Bri&longs;tol as the place where Rebecca's
&longs;ick friend was.
Though Sir George had previou&longs;ly informed his mother
that he thought of accompanying her into Lincolnshire,
he no &longs;ooner heard that the object of his
pur&longs;uit had taken a different route than he determined
to pur&longs;ue her.
“I have thought better of it,” &longs;aid he to her Ladyship;
“I &longs;hall not vi&longs;it my tenants this year, for I
have &longs;everal engagements in town which I cannot well
get off: be&longs;ides, I had forgot that I had promi&longs;ed a
friend of mine to accompany him to Bath.”
“Ah! cried Lady Mary, exultingly to her&longs;elf, “my
good George, your journey will be in vain.”
In a few days Sir George left Twickenham, and immediately
&longs;et out with po&longs;t hor&longs;es for Bri&longs;tol, where
both him&longs;elf and Le Brun were extremely diligent in
their inquiries, though the reader may ea&longs;ily imagine
to how little effect: however, he &longs;till continued, and
nouri&longs;hed the hope, that chance would, by &longs;ome means
or other, di&longs;cover to him the re&longs;idence of the fair Rebecca,
for as he could not &longs;uppo&longs;e the &longs;ituation of her
friend very &longs;plendid, he thought it needle&longs;s to inquire
for her among people of fa&longs;hion; but he de&longs;ired his valet
to be very minute in examining every hou&longs;e where they
let lodgings.
Three weeks had now elap&longs;ed &longs;ince Rebecca's departure,
and Lady Mary was preparing to vi&longs;it Lincolnshire,
when, as &longs;he was conver&longs;ing with her
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daughter, Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, one morning, &longs;he was &longs;uddenly
&longs;eized with a fainting fit, which was &longs;ucceeded by several
others, and left her &longs;o weak and low, that the
faculty called in thought her life in imminent danger.
Alarmed at this intelligence, &longs;he de&longs;ired Harley to
write immediately for Rebecca to return, and, calling
for pen and ink, determined no longer to delay making
the poor girl independent; but when &longs;he took the pen
and attempted to write, her faintne&longs;s returned, and &longs;he
was totally unable to execute her purpo&longs;e; but re&longs;olved
to do &longs;omething for her, &longs;he called Lady O&longs;&longs;iter to her,
and thus addre&longs;&longs;ed her:
“There is a young woman, of the name of Littleton,
who has been with me &longs;ome months, though now &longs;he
is in the country. She is of a &longs;weet di&longs;po&longs;ition, and
it was my intention to leave her at my death a thou&longs;and
pounds. I reque&longs;t you, my child, to pay her this &longs;um,
as &longs;oon as you conveniently can, after my decea&longs;e, and
al&longs;o give her my watch, a &longs;mall picture &longs;et with pearls,
and this ring, taking one from her finger. I hope &longs;he
will arrive time enough to be informed from my own
mouth of my intentions in her favour; but &longs;hould &longs;he
not, I tru&longs;t, you will not be neglectful of the de&longs;ire
of a dying mother.”
It was with great difficulty, and many interruptions,
that Lady Mary made known to her daughter this her
reque&longs;t. Lady O&longs;&longs;iter promi&longs;ed obedience; but, alas!
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter &longs;eldom remembered her promi&longs;e, however
&longs;acredly given. It was impo&longs;&longs;ible to give Sir George
notice of his mother's danger, for no one knew where
he was.
Lady Mary continued tolerably compo&longs;ed all that
night; but the next day her fits returned, and &longs;he
expired in the evening.
When Rebecca received the news of her benefactre&longs;s's
illne&longs;s &longs;he flew to Audley Park. James was &longs;till there.
“Your Lady is very ill, James,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “I mu&longs;t
&longs;et off immediately for Twickenham.”
“And I will attend you, Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid James, eagerly.
“Only &longs;ay when you will like to &longs;et off, and I will
order the chai&longs;e.”
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“I will go the moment you can procure one,” &longs;aid
&longs;he. “I thought you would go with me, James, and,
indeed, I &longs;hould be afraid to take &longs;uch a journey by
my&longs;elf; but do not order a hor&longs;e, my good James;
we &longs;hall travel fa&longs;ter if you ride in the chai&longs;e with me.
I could not bear to have you hurrying after me on
hor&longs;eback.”
James had lived with Lady Mary from the day of
her marriage. He had &longs;erved his mi&longs;tre&longs;s with the true&longs;t
fidelity, and the tears gu&longs;hed from his aged eyes when
he heard of her danger.
When Mrs. Littleton &longs;ound Rebecca was determined
to obey Harley's &longs;ummons, &longs;he conceived it was a high,
an unpardonable breach of filial duty, for her to think
of leaving a mother in &longs;o early a &longs;tate of widowhood.
“You give me a great proof of your affection, Mi&longs;s,”
cried &longs;he, &longs;cornfully, “to leave me in &longs;o much affliction,
and fly po&longs;t ha&longs;te after &longs;trangers: however, we &longs;hall
&longs;ee who is mo&longs;t worthy your attentions by and bye. I
&longs;uppo&longs;e, when my Lady is tired of you again, you
will be glad enough then to return to your mother.”
Though Rebecca was greatly hurt by the&longs;e unju&longs;t
reproaches, it did not prevent her intended journey,
and &longs;he &longs;et off that evening attended by James, and,
indeed, in her own mind, firmly re&longs;olved, that nothing
but ab&longs;olute nece&longs;&longs;ity &longs;hould ever oblige her again to
vi&longs;it Lincoln&longs;hire, except it was in the company of Lady
Mary.
It was late in the evening when &longs;he arrived at Twickenham.
The &longs;ad countenance of the dome&longs;tic who
opened the door, led her pre&longs;aging heart to fear the
wor&longs;t.
Harley met her in the hall, pre&longs;&longs;ed her hand in &longs;ilence,
and proceeded to light her to her u&longs;ual apartment.
Rebecca hardly dared breathe as &longs;he went up &longs;tairs;
as &longs;he pa&longs;t her Lady's dre&longs;&longs;ing-room, &longs;he &longs;topped,
looked earne&longs;tly at Harley, and, laying her hand on
her heart, cried:
“Tell me the truth:” but her re&longs;piration became &longs;o
difficult &longs;he could not fini&longs;h the &longs;entence.
“All is over,” &longs;aid Harley.
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“I feared &longs;o,” cried Rebecca; then turning into
her own room, &longs;he &longs;unk on the bed in a &longs;tate of &longs;tupid
in&longs;en&longs;ibility, from whence it was difficult to rou&longs;e her.
Harley u&longs;ed her utmo&longs;t endeavours, and at length
&longs;ucceeded. Rebecca rai&longs;ed her cla&longs;ped hands to heaven,
exclaimed, “Thy will be done,” and the &longs;alutary
drops of &longs;orrow gu&longs;hed in a torrent from her eyes!
Harley was plea&longs;ed to &longs;ee them flow, and imagining to
leave her to the free indulgence of them would be be&longs;t,
retired to inform Lady O&longs;&longs;iter (who had not yet left
Twickenham) that Rebecca was arrived.
“I will &longs;ee her in the morning,” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip,
carele&longs;sly. “Take her with you, Harley, to the
hou&longs;e-keeper's room.”
“She is in her own apartment, Madam. She never
a&longs;&longs;ociated with even the upper &longs;ervants.”
“Oh! &longs;he is quite the fine Lady I &longs;uppo&longs;e. How
could you endure the creature's pride, Harley?”
“I never di&longs;covered that &longs;he had any, Madam. She
is the meeke&longs;t being in exi&longs;tence.”
“My mother u&longs;ed to &longs;ay &longs;he was hand&longs;ome,” cried
her Lady&longs;hip, looking in the gla&longs;s.
“I believe every one thought her &longs;o who looked at
her. Sir George was greatly &longs;truck with her, though
he &longs;aw her but once.”
“Well, &longs;o much the better; I &longs;uppo&longs;e he will take
the trouble of providing for her off my hands; eh,
Harley, don't you think &longs;o?”
“Indeed, Madam, I have often thought Mi&longs;s Littleton
would one day be Lady Worthy.”
“Woman!” &longs;aid Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, turning ha&longs;tily round,
with a look of the utmo&longs;t contempt, “how could &longs;uch
an idea enter your mind? Lady Worthy, indeed! No,
I think George knows better than that; he may, perhaps,
make her his mi&longs;tre&longs;s: but go, good woman, go,
you have made me quite &longs;ick by the horrid &longs;ugge&longs;tion.”
“Poor Rebecca,” &longs;aid Harley, &longs;oftly, as &longs;he left
her imperious Lady: “Poor girl, you will &longs;ee a &longs;ad
change I fear. You have lo&longs;t your be&longs;t friend, and &longs;o
we have all, indeed; for though my late dear Lady
was proud &longs;he never wanted humanity.”
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CHAP. XI. TEARS OF SENSIBILITY AND SORROW A-LA-MODE.
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
When the mind of Rebecca became a little composed,
Harley prevailed on her to take &longs;ome
refre&longs;hment. She took a few mouthfuls of boiled chicken
and drank a gla&longs;s of wine, and then inquired in
which room the remains of her revered benefactre&longs;s lay.
“In her own dre&longs;&longs;ing-room as yet,” &longs;aid Harley;
“but to-morrow &longs;he will be removed.”
Rebecca &longs;aid but little more, and Harley thinking
the fatigue of her journey, and the agitation of her
mind combined, might incline her to go early to re&longs;t,
removed the &longs;upper table, and wi&longs;hed her a good night.
No &longs;ooner was Rebecca alone than &longs;he gave way to a
fre&longs;h bur&longs;t of grief; the lo&longs;s of her father was again
renewed, the unkindne&longs;s of her mother was remembered
with double angui&longs;h, and her own friendle&longs;s &longs;ituation
&longs;truck &longs;o forcibly on her mind, that her &longs;orrow became
almo&longs;t in&longs;upportable. At length her tears &longs;eemed
exhau&longs;ted; a kind of torpid calm &longs;ucceeded, and &longs;he
formed the re&longs;olution of vi&longs;iting the chamber that contained
the decea&longs;ed Lady Mary.
With ha&longs;ty and unequal &longs;tep &longs;he reached the door of
the apartment, opened it &longs;oftly, and pau&longs;ed for a moment
to &longs;ummon all her fortitude.—The attendants in
the adjoining room heard her enter, and approached to
con&longs;ole her; but &longs;he waved her hand in &longs;ilence for them
to retire, and they re&longs;pected her too much to attempt
an intru&longs;ion on her grief, but left her to the free indulgence
of it.—She placed the candle &longs;he held in her hand
on a table and approached the coffin, gazed, with reverential
awe on that countenance, which had often
beamed on her looks of the kinde&longs;t benevolence.
“Dear and only friend,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “&longs;ince thou art
gone, where is there a heart remaining that feels one
&longs;park of affection for the poor Rebecea? Oh my more
than mother, thy adopted child is now bere&longs;t of every
earthly comfort! Spirit of purity, look down from the
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man&longs;ions of felicity, and hear the vows I here repeat: never
to infringe one command of your's while life warms
my heart. While you lived it was my pride, my glory, to
de&longs;erve the affection with which you honoured me, and
if &longs;hall be &longs;till my &longs;tudy to pre&longs;erve, to the late&longs;t hour
of my life, my integrity un&longs;haken; though you can no
longer be &longs;en&longs;ible of my re&longs;pect and love, &longs;acred &longs;hall
be your memory to my heart, that heart which, whil&longs;t
it retains your precepts, can never &longs;tray from the path
of rectitude, never be unworthy of the regard of all
who love virtue.”—Here her feelings overpowered her;
her head &longs;unk on her hand—her tears again bur&longs;t forth—
her lips continued to move—but articulation was denied.—
At this in&longs;tant the door opened, and Sir
George entered. He &longs;tarted involuntarily at beholding
Rebecca. Her pen&longs;ive attitude, her depre&longs;&longs;ed countenance
plainly depicted the &longs;orrows of her heart; the
afflicted maid had not heard his approach. He drew
near, and laid his hand on one of her's. She rai&longs;ed her
timid eyes, looked at him mournfully, pointed to the
coffin, and cried, emphatically:
“She is gone for ever!”
Sir George really loved and re&longs;pected his mother; nor
had he heard of her illne&longs;s when the public prints announced
her decea&longs;e. Shocked beyond mea&longs;ure, he
in&longs;tantly took po&longs;t hor&longs;es, and never &longs;topped, even for
nece&longs;&longs;ary refre&longs;hment, till he alighted at his mother's
gate, &longs;aint and fatigued. He a&longs;ked if his &longs;i&longs;ter was
there, and being informed &longs;he was in the drawing-room,
he went ha&longs;tily up &longs;tairs; but how was he di&longs;gn&longs;ted,
upon entering the room, to &longs;ee the unfeeling daughter
of &longs;o good a mother receive him with the greate&longs;t &longs;ang
froid.
She aro&longs;e, pre&longs;ented her cheek, was glad to &longs;ee him,
&longs;lightly mentioned the melancholy event, and &longs;oon after
a&longs;ked him if he intended ordering a mourning coach,
or only to put his &longs;ervants in black? “I think,” continued
&longs;he, “the mournings are much &longs;horter than they
u&longs;ed to be, and nothing near &longs;o deep: I am glad of
it; for my own part I dete&longs;t mourning, it makes one
look &longs;o dirty and di&longs;mal.”
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Ju&longs;t then Lord O&longs;&longs;iter entered, and propo&longs;ed a game
at cards, by way of whiling away the evening.
“Ah! do join us, George,” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip;
“I have been moped to death this week pa&longs;t.”
“I am not in a humour for amu&longs;ement, &longs;i&longs;ter,” &longs;aid
Sir George, coldly; “and &longs;ince you have no feeling
your&longs;elf of the irreparable lo&longs;s we have &longs;u&longs;tained, I &longs;hall
not trouble you with mine, but retire where I may indulge
them uninterrupted.”
How great mu&longs;t be the contra&longs;t then between this
unfeeling &longs;i&longs;ter and the affecting &longs;en&longs;ibility of Rebecca!
He pre&longs;&longs;ed her pa&longs;&longs;ive hand in &longs;ilence, mingled his tears
with her's, and found his heart in&longs;en&longs;ibly relieved.
“My poor mother,” &longs;aid he, after a pau&longs;e of a few
moments, “little did I think when we parted it was
the la&longs;t time!”
“She is undoubtedly happy,” &longs;aid Rebecca, “in
&longs;ome mea&longs;ure, forgetting her own &longs;orrow, and wi&longs;hing
to convey con&longs;olation into the bo&longs;om of Sir George.”
“Oh! I know &longs;he is,” replied Sir George; “if
the practice of every virtue can in&longs;ure eternal felicity,
&longs;he is happy beyond what our weak imaginations can
paint.”
Rebecca's tears &longs;treamed afre&longs;h.—“Ah! my dear
mother,” &longs;aid he, “your loved remains are embalmed
by the tears of grateful affection, though thy daughter,
forgetful of thy worth, can amu&longs;e her&longs;elf with trifles,
and neglect the tribute due to thy memory.”
“Ah!” &longs;aid Rebecca, “I never can forget her—
never wi&longs;h it; for the remembrance of her virtues will
emulate me in the attempt to imitate them.”
She pre&longs;&longs;ed her lips to tho&longs;e of her clay cold benefactress,
faintly and tremulou&longs;ly pronounced the word
“farewell!” and ru&longs;hed ha&longs;tily out of the apartment.
The next morning, at twelve o'clock Harley summoned
her to attend Lady O&longs;&longs;iter.
On entering the dre&longs;&longs;ing room, &longs;he found her Ladyship
deeply engaged with her mantua-maker and milliner.
She did not even notice the entrance of Rebecca;
but thus continued her directions to the former of her
trade&longs;women:
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“Let them be made as elegant and as full as possible;
but, at the &longs;ame time, remember, I wi&longs;h to pay
every nece&longs;&longs;ary re&longs;pect to my dear mother. It was a
very &longs;udden thing. Mrs. Modily, you cannot think
how it &longs;hocked me; my nerves will not be &longs;ettled again
this fortnight, I dare &longs;ay; then, a thing of this
kind forces one to be mewed up, and &longs;ee no company,
&longs;o I thought I might as well &longs;tay where I was as go to
town. But, as I was &longs;aying, Modily, let my white
bombazine be made very hand&longs;ome, and full trimmed
with crape: I do not mean to keep from vi&longs;iting above
a fortnight, and, I think, in a month or &longs;ix weeks I
may wear white mu&longs;lin, with black crape ornaments,
for undre&longs;s.”
The accommodating mantua-maker agreed to all the
Lady &longs;aid, when, turning round to &longs;peak to her milliner,
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter was &longs;truck by the elegant per&longs;on,
and mode&longs;t humble countenance of Rebecca.
“Oh! I &longs;uppo&longs;e,” &longs;aid &longs;he, carele&longs;sly, “you are
the young woman my poor mother mentioned in her
la&longs;t moments?”
Rebecca court&longs;eyed a&longs;&longs;ent, but was unable to &longs;peak.
“Ah! &longs;he was very good to you, I understandWell,
don't make your&longs;elf unea&longs;y, I will be you friend
in future.”
Rebecca attempted to expre&longs;s her thanks; but her emotions
were &longs;o violent, &longs;he was forced to continue &longs;ilent.
“I dare &longs;ay, child,” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip, “you have
&longs;ome ta&longs;te in dre&longs;s; come, give me your opinion about
the caps I have ordered. Here, La Blond, &longs;how her
tho&longs;e caps: well now, what do you think, will the&longs;e
be deep enough? for, though I hate mourning, I
would not be wanting in re&longs;pect; one's friends are apt
enough to &longs;ay ill-natured things; one can't be too cautious
in giving them occa&longs;ion. Do you think I &longs;hould
go without powder? You look mon&longs;trous well without
powder; but then you have light hair, and your black
dre&longs;s, though &longs;o very plain, is becoming. Who are
you in mourning for, child?”
Rebecca was &longs;truck almo&longs;t &longs;peechle&longs;s with astonishment.
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“Good heavens!” &longs;aid &longs;he, mentally, “can this
be the daughter of Lady Worthy?”
“Who are you in mourning for, child?” &longs;aid Lady
O&longs;&longs;iter.
“My father, Madam.”
“Oh! you have lo&longs;t your father. Well, it can't
be helped, old folks mu&longs;t be expected to drop off. You
mu&longs;t not be low &longs;pirited if you are with me: I hate
low &longs;pirited people, though &longs;ince I lo&longs;t my poor mother
I have been low enough my&longs;elf; but I endeavour
to &longs;hake it off as much as I can; it is of no manner of
u&longs;e to grieve; when folks are once dead, we can't recal
them, though we fretted our&longs;elves blind.”
“But we cannot always command our feelings, Madam,”
&longs;aid Rebecca.
“No, child, that is true. I am &longs;ure I often wi&longs;h
my feelings were not &longs;o delicate as they are; it is a
great affliction to have too much &longs;en&longs;ibility. Pray
what is your name, my dear?”
“Rebecca.”
“Rebecca, that's a queer old fa&longs;hion name. I remember
when my mother u&longs;ed to make me read the
great Family Bible, I remember then reading about a
Rebecca Somebody; but, Lord! child, 'tis a va&longs;t
vulgar name; I'd alter it if I was you; one never
hears of &longs;uch a name among people of any re&longs;inement.”
“I am &longs;orry it does not plea&longs;e your Lady&longs;hip,” &longs;aid
Rebecca, almo&longs;t &longs;miling at her ab&longs;urdity; “but as I
was chri&longs;tened by it I mu&longs;t be &longs;atisfied with it.”
“Well, then, Rebecca, but what is your other
name?”
“Littleton, Madam.”
“Ah, Lord! they are both three &longs;yllables—that is
&longs;o tire&longs;ome. Well, but, Rebecca (for I like the name
be&longs;t on account of its oddity) &longs;hould you have any objection
to enter into my &longs;ervice?”
“Far from it, Madam; I &longs;hall cheerfully &longs;erve any
part of the family of my dear departed Lady?”
“Ah! but I am not quite &longs;o &longs;entimental as my mother
was: I &longs;hall not want any body to work and read
by me. I &longs;hall want you to be u&longs;eful; now for in&longs;tance,
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to make up my morning caps, to trim my mu&longs;lin dresses.
Can you &longs;peak French, child?”
“Yes, Madam, and &longs;hall be happy to render my&longs;elf
u&longs;eful in any thing within the compa&longs;s of my power.
I do not wi&longs;h to eat the bread of idlene&longs;s.”
Rebecca &longs;poke with a degree of &longs;pirit that &longs;urpri&longs;ed
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter: however, &longs;he unaba&longs;hed, proceeded:
“I have two little boys and a girl; I really have not
time to attend them: now I could wi&longs;h you to hear
them read, give them &longs;ome little knowledge of the
French, and take care of Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter's clothes. Can
you make frocks?”
“I make no doubt but I can, if I try, and my utmost
endeavours &longs;hall not be wanting.”
“That is well. I under&longs;tand my mother did not
&longs;uffer you to eat with the &longs;ervants, &longs;o you &longs;hall have
your meals in the nur&longs;ery with the children. I &longs;uppo&longs;e,
if my woman &longs;hould happen to be ill, or out of the way,
you would have no objection to dre&longs;s or undre&longs;s me.
“I am afraid I &longs;hould be awkward, Madam; but
if you will pardon my want of experience, you &longs;hall
always find me ready to obey your commands.”
“And what wages do you expect?”
“Whatever you plea&longs;e.”
“What did my mother give you?”
“I had no &longs;ettled &longs;alary.”
“Well, but I like to know what I am about; I'll
give you &longs;ixteen guineas a year.”
Rebecca agreed to the terms, and, retiring to her
apartment, left Lady O&longs;&longs;iter to fini&longs;h her con&longs;ultation
with her milliner and mantua-maker—while &longs;he took up
her pen, and informed her mother that &longs;he had entered
into a new line of life, in which &longs;he hoped to be enabled
to do her duty, and gain the approbation of her Lady.
CHAP. XII. THE MAN OF THE WORLD.
During the time that intervened between the
death of Lady Mary and her interment, Sir
George, though he frequently thought of Rebecca,
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made no attempt to &longs;ee her, but &longs;atisfied him&longs;elf with
&longs;ending every day to inquire after her health.
“It is certainly a very improper time,” &longs;aid he, “to
think of entertaining her on the &longs;ubject of love. Her
heart is at pre&longs;ent over charged with &longs;orrow; be&longs;ides
I &longs;hould prove my&longs;elf highly unworthy of her e&longs;teem,
could I, at this melancholy period, think &longs;eriou&longs;ly on
any thing but the mournful cau&longs;e of our meeting.”
The morning after the la&longs;t &longs;olemn ceremony was
performed, Sir George, &longs;itting at breakfa&longs;t with his
brother and &longs;i&longs;ter, mentioned that, in re&longs;pect to his
mother's memory, he &longs;hould remain at Twickenham a
couple of months, and &longs;ee no company, but one or
two &longs;elect friends: he then invited Lord and Lady
O&longs;&longs;iter to remain with him during that period, and
propo&longs;ed &longs;ending immediately for the children.
“You'll pardon me, brother,” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip;
“I cannot think of remaining any longer in this melancholy
place than till to-morrow, and I mu&longs;t &longs;ay you
are much to blame, in re&longs;olving to bury your&longs;elf from
the world: I am &longs;ure it is a &longs;tep which cannot be expected
from &longs;o young a man.”
“You are to act as you plea&longs;e, &longs;i&longs;ter, and, I hope,
you will permit me to do the &longs;ame.”
“Oh! apropos, you know the young woman, Rebecca—
what's her name? I never can remember it.
She that my mother kept with her as a kind of companion.”
“I have &longs;een her,” &longs;aid Sir George, “and cannot
&longs;ay but I am &longs;urpri&longs;ed my mother made no mention of
her in her will; but, I &longs;uppo&longs;e, &longs;he de&longs;ired you to
make &longs;ome provi&longs;ion for her.”
“Yes, &longs;he did mention her to me, and I have taken
her into my protection.”
Here Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, who had been carele&longs;sly looking
over the news-paper, laid it down.
“So then,” &longs;aid he, with an air of curio&longs;ity, “your
Lady&longs;hip has taken her as a companion; but, pray,
if that is the ca&longs;e, why is &longs;he not at the breakfa&longs;t table,
to &longs;ave you the trouble of making the tea?”
“Oh! you labour under a va&longs;t mi&longs;take, my Lord;
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no humble toad-eater will ever make a part of my household.
I a&longs;&longs;ure you, I dete&longs;t the whole cla&longs;s of them;
they are in general a &longs;et of forward, impertinent creatures,
made up of pride and idlene&longs;s: I keep nobody
about me but can render them&longs;elves u&longs;eful; and I know
of no u&longs;e your cringing companions are but to critici&longs;e
their Lady's actions, and contribute to their Lord's
amu&longs;ement.”
His Lord&longs;hip looked di&longs;appointed, and rea&longs;&longs;umed
the news-paper.
Sir George was perfectly a&longs;toni&longs;hed at his &longs;i&longs;ter's illbred
expre&longs;&longs;ions; but willing to know in what manner
Rebecca was provided for, &longs;imply a&longs;ked the que&longs;tion.
“Why, I have taken her into the nur&longs;ery to teach
the children to read.”
“I approve the plan va&longs;tly,” &longs;aid Lord O&longs;&longs;iter,
again laying down the paper: “I think the children
wanted a governe&longs;s.”
“Not &longs;o fa&longs;t, my Lord: I have as great a di&longs;like
to governe&longs;&longs;es as to companions. I hate the whole cla&longs;s
of your &longs;econd-hand gentry. Rebecca will hear them
read—dre&longs;s and undre&longs;s Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter—make her frocks—
and upon occa&longs;ion, a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t my woman.”
Sir George felt his cheeks glow with indignation.
“I think, &longs;i&longs;ter,” &longs;aid he, “con&longs;idering the place &longs;he
held in our mother's e&longs;teem, the &longs;ituation you mean to
give her is not paying that dear woman's memory a
proper re&longs;pect; be&longs;ides, I do not think it probable,
after having been treated as the companion of Lady
Mary, Mi&longs;s Littleton will feel her&longs;elf &longs;atisfied with
being only the &longs;ervant of her daughter.”
“Don't make your&longs;elf unea&longs;y about that, George;
I have talked with her, and agreed about terms; however,
if you choo&longs;e to retain her here as hou&longs;e-keeper
extraordinary,” attempting an arch look,—
“To cheer the &longs;olitary days of mourning,” added
his Lord&longs;hip.
Sir George darted at them both a look of the utmo&longs;t
contempt. “Your inuendos,” &longs;aid he, “are as cruel
as they are groundle&longs;s: however, Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, you
will plea&longs;e to know, that no per&longs;on, who has been
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honoured by the friend&longs;hip of my mother, &longs;hall be treated
with di&longs;re&longs;pect, when I have the power to prevent it.
If Mi&longs;s Littleton is not &longs;atisfied with her &longs;ituation, I
&longs;hall think it my duty to place her above it.”
“I will &longs;end for her here, and you may a&longs;k her,”
&longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip.
“Aye, that is the be&longs;t way,” &longs;aid Lord O&longs;&longs;iter,
ringing the bell; for from Sir George's evident agitation,
he imagined there mu&longs;t be &longs;omething extraordinary
about Rebecca, and earne&longs;tly wi&longs;hed to &longs;ee her.
“Tell Rebecca I want her,” &longs;aid the Lady to the
&longs;ervant who entered the room.
“For heaven's &longs;ake, Lady O&longs;&longs;iter,” &longs;aid Sir George,
“do not &longs;hock the poor girl's feelings, by &longs;ending for
her here.”
“Oh! Lord, &longs;he mu&longs;t get the better of tho&longs;e feelings
you talk about, or &longs;he will never be good for
much; be&longs;ides, it always diverts me to &longs;ee her blu&longs;h,
and look like a fool.”
“Rebecca Littleton can never look like a fool, Madam,”
cried Sir George, with vehemence, “and &longs;ince
you per&longs;i&longs;t in &longs;ending for her, you will excu&longs;e me if I
do not &longs;tay to &longs;ee Lady O&longs;&longs;iter render her&longs;elf ridiculous,
by in&longs;ulting a woman every way her &longs;uperior, but in
the paltry di&longs;tinction of fortune.”
He then left the room, &longs;hutting the door after him
with violence, and in a few moments Rebecca entered.
How great was the &longs;urpri&longs;e of Lord O&longs;&longs;iter when he
beheld the &longs;trikingly beautiful figure that pre&longs;ented itself
to his view! Mode&longs;ty had recalled to her cheeks
the ro&longs;y hue which grief had chaced from them. Her
fine eyes were timidly rai&longs;ed from the ground to her
Lady's face, while, with a gentle inclination of the
body, and a voice of &longs;ofte&longs;t harmony, &longs;he reque&longs;ted to
know her commands.
“Nothing particular, child; only I was montioning
to my brother the &longs;ituation I had offered you in my
family, and he thinks you will not be &longs;atisfied with it.”
“Indeed, Madam, I am greatly obliged to Sir
George for his &longs;olicitude, but mu&longs;t reque&longs;t your Ladyship
to inform him that while I can be &longs;o fortunate as
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to obtain your approbation, I &longs;hall never be otherwi&longs;e
than happy, and &longs;hall deem my&longs;elf highly honoured by
your protection as long as your Lady&longs;hip &longs;hall think
fit to extend it towards me.”
“Perhaps you would like to tell him &longs;o your&longs;elf,
child?”
“By no means, Madam.”
“But you are quite &longs;atisfied, Rebecca?”
“Intirely &longs;o, my Lady, and that &longs;atisfaction will
ever remain uninterrupted, while I am con&longs;cious of
performing my duty.”
“Well, that's all,” cried her Lady&longs;hip, in a half
peevi&longs;h accent.
Rebecca court&longs;eyed, and retired.
“Well, and what do you think of her, my Lord,”
cried the Lady, turning to her hu&longs;band; “why you
&longs;eem in amaze!”
“I am perfectly &longs;o, my dear (endeavouring to recollect
him&longs;elf;) but it is becau&longs;e I can't, for my &longs;oul,
conceive what George can &longs;ee in this girl to make &longs;uch
a fu&longs;s about her.”
“Why, don't you think her hand&longs;ome?”
“No woman appears &longs;o in my eyes when your Ladyship
is by.”
“Oh! you're va&longs;tly civil this morning; but, pray
what fault have you to find with her per&longs;on?”
“Nay, nothing particular; but I think &longs;he is altogether
in&longs;ipid.”
“She is very fair.”
“Yes, but I was never &longs;truck with your very fair
women; they have not half the expre&longs;&longs;ion of your fine
brunettes.”
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter was a very dark woman, and could not
help at that moment going to the gla&longs;s to adju&longs;t her
handkerchief.
“She has very fine eyes, my Lord.”
“Fine eyes, oh! ridiculous; you may as well admire
the blue gla&longs;s beads &longs;tuck in the head of a wax
doll. I don't &longs;ee any thing about her even tolerably
pretty but her neck and &longs;houlders; they &longs;eem &longs;haped
well enough.”
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“This horrid mourning makes one look like a fright,”
cried the Lady, &longs;till looking in the gla&longs;s, “and they
have made my gown &longs;o abominably high, I declare I
appear quite round &longs;houldered; it &longs;hall po&longs;itively be
altered before I wear it again.”
“Not if I might advi&longs;e, my dear; for I declare I
never &longs;aw you look better than you do this morning;
and, in my opinion, women inclined to em bon point
have more dignity in their per&longs;ons than the very slender;
for in&longs;tance, now your Rebecca; &longs;he will always
remind me of Death and Daphne.”
“Dear, my Lord, when have I &longs;een you in &longs;o agreeable
a humour? I declare you are quite witty.”
“How can I be otherwi&longs;e, my Lady, when I have
&longs;o good a &longs;ubject for ridicule?”
Her Lady&longs;hip did not take the keenne&longs;s of the sarcasm,
and retired, to give &longs;ome orders to her woman,
perfectly &longs;atisfied that Rebecca was infinitely inferior to
her&longs;elf in per&longs;onal attractions; while her artful hu&longs;band
applauded him&longs;elf for the part he had acted, which he
naturally imagined would &longs;ecure, within the reach of
his power, a woman who&longs;e charms had made &longs;uch an
impre&longs;&longs;ion on his mind, that he was re&longs;olved, if po&longs;&longs;ible,
to &longs;acrifice her a victim to &longs;eduction.
CHAP. XIII. THE WOMAN OF HONOUR.
When Sir George left the parlour, he retired to
his own apartment, and calling for pen and ink,
addre&longs;&longs;ed the following letter to Rebecca:
TO MISS LITTLETON.
“With a heart fully &longs;en&longs;ible of the merit of the object
I pre&longs;ume to addre&longs;s, how is it po&longs;&longs;ible but I mu&longs;t al&longs;o
be &longs;en&longs;ible of the fear of offending her? pardon me,
dear young Lady, if almo&longs;t unacquainted with the
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thou&longs;and little delicacies expected by your &longs;ex from
tho&longs;e of ours, who venture to offer their friend&longs;hip and
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance to innocence and beauty; pardon me, I &longs;ay,
if my expre&longs;&longs;ions are not &longs;ufficiently denotive of my respect
and e&longs;teem, while I venture to a&longs;k if the &longs;ituation
my &longs;i&longs;ter offers you is perfectly con&longs;onant with your
expectations and wi&longs;hes; yet I ought to know the modesty,
the humility of your mind, will lead you to tell
me it is.
“But, alas! I too well know the di&longs;po&longs;ition of
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter to imagine a heart, like your's, replete
with &longs;en&longs;ibility, can enjoy any tolerable degree of tranquillity,
when &longs;ubject to her caprice and ill humour: I
mu&longs;t therefore entreat my lovely friend to accept not
from me, but as a legacy from my mother (for I am
&longs;en&longs;ible &longs;he de&longs;igned it, though the &longs;udden &longs;troke that
deprived us of her prevented her putting her de&longs;igns in
execution) the enclo&longs;ed two thou&longs;and pounds, which
will, at lea&longs;t, place you above dependance on the weak
and unworthy.
“Permit me al&longs;o to a&longs;&longs;ure you, dear amiable Mi&longs;s
Littleton, that, in every future period of my life, I
&longs;hall be happy to convince you how much I am intere&longs;ted
in your welfare, and that nothing would give me more
&longs;incere plea&longs;ure, than being allowed to devote my life
and fortune to the promotion of your felicity.
“I am, with every token of e&longs;teem and re&longs;pect,
your friend,
GEORGE WORTHY.”
Rebecca could not read this letter without emotion;
yet did &longs;he not he&longs;itate what an&longs;wer to return; the letter
it&longs;elf &longs;he carefully locked up in her cabinet, but
the bank-bills &longs;he &longs;ealed up in the following note:
TO SIR GEORGE WORTHY.
“Rebecca Littleton returns her mo&longs;t grateful acknowledgments
to Sir George Worthy for the kind solicitude
he evinces for her happine&longs;s. She begs leave
to return his noble pre&longs;ent, which &longs;he cannot think of
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accepting, as it would lay her under an obligation too
oppre&longs;&longs;ive to a &longs;pirit which Sir George is mi&longs;taken in
thinking humble. Rebecca feels her&longs;elf highly satisfied
in the protection of Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, and, though
&longs;he feels grateful for the offered friend&longs;hip of the &longs;on
of her ever-lamented benefactre&longs;s, &longs;he mu&longs;t beg leave
to decline it, as the va&longs;t di&longs;tance fortune has placed between
them renders it impo&longs;&longs;ible to cultivate true friendship,
which can only &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;t between per&longs;ons on an
equality with each other. Rebecca wi&longs;hes to be retained
in the memory of Sir George only as the &longs;ervant
of his &longs;i&longs;ter, and, at the &longs;ame time, a&longs;&longs;ures him, the
&longs;on of Lady Mary Worthy will ever be retained in her
mind with &longs;ervent wi&longs;hes for his happine&longs;s.”
When &longs;he had &longs;ent away this note, &longs;he again read
over Sir George's letter; a tear, almo&longs;t unknown to
her&longs;elf, fell on it as &longs;he peru&longs;ed with attention his offers
of friend&longs;hip: but &longs;he &longs;oon recollected her&longs;elf, ha&longs;tily
bru&longs;hed away the token of her weakne&longs;s, and, returning
the letter to her cabinet, began to prepare for her
removal to town, whither Lady O&longs;&longs;iter intended returning
the next day.
CHAP. XIV. TRIAL OF THE HEART.
“What a noble mind is here di&longs;played!” &longs;aid
Sir George, as he read Rebecca's note.
“How much does this woman's &longs;entiments elevate her
above the &longs;tation in which Providence has placed her!
I fear my letter was not dictated with &longs;ufficient delicacy;
her pride has taken the alarm, that laudible pride that
is a woman's be&longs;t &longs;afeguard: but no matter, I will not
write again, but wait till I can di&longs;cover in what manner
my &longs;i&longs;ter behaves to her. When &longs;he has tried her
new &longs;ituation, &longs;he may not find it &longs;o ea&longs;y as her little
knowledge of the world at pre&longs;ent leads her to imagine.
When &longs;he finds her&longs;elf uncomfortable, then, perhaps,
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the offer of friend&longs;hip from me will be more acceptable.”
In the evening Sir George, having no inclination to
join the in&longs;ipid chat of Lord and Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, pleaded
letters to write, and went to the library to look for a
book that might afford him an hour's rational amusement.
As he entered the room, he &longs;aw Rebecca bu&longs;ily
employed in retouching a &longs;mall drawing that lay before
her, and he ob&longs;erved, that &longs;he frequently looked at a
portrait of his mother that hung over the chimney.”
“I di&longs;turb you, I fear, Mi&longs;s Littleton.”
“By no means, Sir,” cried Rebecca, ri&longs;ing, vi&longs;ibly
embarra&longs;&longs;ed; “I was ju&longs;t going. Indeed, my being
here is an intru&longs;ion, I mu&longs;t entreat you to pardon.”
“I &longs;hall be extremely &longs;orry if Mi&longs;s Littleton considered
her&longs;elf as an intruder in any apartment in this
hou&longs;e. You were drawing; will you permit me to &longs;ee
your performance?”
“You will &longs;mile at my pre&longs;umption, Sir; but I have
been endeavouring to catch &longs;ome faint re&longs;emblance of
my regretted Lady, that &longs;hould any thing &longs;eparate me
from her daughter's &longs;ervice, I might have it in my
power &longs;ometimes to gaze on her beloved features and
weep.”
“You have been happy in pre&longs;erving the likene&longs;s;
but, I think, I have a miniature of my mother, the
mo&longs;t &longs;triking thing of the kind I ever &longs;aw.”
He then drew from his pocket a &longs;mall ca&longs;e, which
contained Lady Mary's picture, elegantly &longs;et with
brilliants, intermixed with pearls. It had been &longs;et as
a pre&longs;ent for Lady O&longs;&longs;iter; but as that Lady knew
not of her brother's de&longs;ign, he thought he might now
di&longs;po&longs;e of it more to his own &longs;atisfaction.
“Will Mi&longs;s Littleton honour me &longs;o far,” &longs;aid he,
taking it from the ca&longs;e, “as to wear this picture for
the &longs;ake of her who&longs;e re&longs;emblance it bears?”
“The picture of it&longs;elf, Sir George, would be to me
an invaluable treature; but its ornaments are &longs;o &longs;uperb
and co&longs;tly, you will pardon me if I decline the acceptance
of it.”
“Why will you mortify me by this refu&longs;al? You
treat me very unkindly, Mi&longs;s Littleton, &longs;ince even my
mother's picture is not acceptable from my hands!”
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“Indeed, Sir, you are mi&longs;taken, and, to convince
you I am not ungrateful, was that picture devi&longs;ted of
its rich ornaments, I would accept it cheerfully, and
wear it, not only for her &longs;ake, but your own.”
“Charming, engaging woman! exclaimed he, catching
her hand, “why are you thus irre&longs;i&longs;tibly lovely,
and yet refu&longs;e me the &longs;atisfaction of placing you above
the malice of fortune?”
She blu&longs;hed carnation deep, as &longs;he attempted to withdraw
her hand; but a &longs;mile dimpled on her cheek, and
her heart peeped forth from her tell-tale eyes.
“You make me &longs;mile,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “to hear you talk
of the malice of fortune. We, who are born in an
humble &longs;tation, cannot feel the want of luxuries which
we never enjoyed. Happine&longs;s is not always annexed to
wealth, or mi&longs;ery to poverty. We are all poor or rich
by compari&longs;on, and my &longs;ituation, which to you is an
object of compa&longs;&longs;ion, would be to thou&longs;ands the summit
of felicity; but your conde&longs;cen&longs;ion makes me forget
my&longs;elf: I wi&longs;h you a good night.”
“Stay one moment adorable Rebecca, cried Sir
George, &longs;topping her as &longs;he was about to leave the
room. “Hear me, I entreat you, with attention; by
heavens, you &longs;hall never go into the &longs;ervice of Lady
O&longs;&longs;iter, nor into any &longs;ervice. I am your &longs;lave; my
life, my forune, all are your's. I love you more than
exi&longs;tence it&longs;elf. I mean not to offend your delicacy.
My de&longs;igns are of the mo&longs;t honourable nature. Name
your own time, I will wait with patience. Only &longs;uffer
me to tell my &longs;i&longs;ter, that the woman whom I a&longs;pire to
the honour of making my wife, mu&longs;t henceforth be
treated with that re&longs;pect her worth and virtue demands.”
“Hold, hold, dear Sir George,” cried Rebecca,
pale and trembling, “I mu&longs;t hear no more. You honour
me, highly honour me by the&longs;e profe&longs;&longs;ions of regard;
but you talk of impo&longs;&longs;ibilities. The humble
Rebecca Littleton, however &longs;en&longs;ible of your merits,
can never be your wife; in&longs;urmountable ob&longs;tacles are
placed between us.”
“If your bo&longs;om, lovely Rebecca, glows with sensibility,
every ob&longs;tacle is ea&longs;ily removed.”
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“Do not interrupt me,” &longs;aid &longs;he. “The ob&longs;tacles
I &longs;peak of can never be removed; my vows are already
pledged; they are regi&longs;tered in heaven; 'tis &longs;acrilege
to li&longs;ten to your declaration.”
Sir George dropped her hand, and, with a look of
mingled horror and &longs;urpri&longs;e, cried, “Are you already
married?”
“No,” replied &longs;he, faintly, “not married.”
“Then you &longs;port with my mi&longs;ery, cruel, cruel girl!”
“Alas!” &longs;aid Rebecca, with a look of tenderne&longs;s,
“heaven knows I do not. I would give worlds, did
I po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s them, to &longs;ave you from one hour's angui&longs;h;
but, ah! Sir George, mine is a wayward fate; my
bo&longs;om is heavy laden with &longs;orrow. Ah! do not increase
that &longs;orrow by letting me &longs;ee you partake it.”
“Then,” cried he, &longs;tarting from his &longs;eat, “then
you do not hate me?”
“Hate you, oh! no, that were impo&longs;&longs;ible.”
“Then we may yet be happy,” &longs;aid he, catching
her in his arms.
Rebecca's heart had almo&longs;t betrayed her; but &longs;he
was &longs;en&longs;ible this mu&longs;t be the moment of victory. She
pu&longs;hed him from her, and a&longs;&longs;uming an air of re&longs;erve,
“Sir George,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “if you wi&longs;h my happine&longs;s,
there is but one way by which you can promote it, that
is, by never more &longs;peaking to me on this &longs;ubject; my
fate is irrevocably fixed; cea&longs;e then to di&longs;turb my felicity
by endeavouring to awaken my &longs;en&longs;ibility. You,
Sir George, are de&longs;igned by heaven to move in an exalted
&longs;tation. You have many duties to fulfil, which
it will be almo&longs;t criminal to neglect. For me, unknowing
and unknown by the world, if I can but pa&longs;s
through life blamele&longs;s, my utmo&longs;t wi&longs;h is gratified.”
“Will you then leave me? &longs;aid he, “and leave me
devoid of hope?”
“No, Sir, I will endeavour to cheer your bo&longs;om
with the &longs;ame hope that animates mine. I hope, sincerely,
you will &longs;oon meet a woman your equal, in
birth, fortune, and merit, who will obliterate from
your mind all traces of Rebecca; and may you, united
by the mo&longs;t &longs;acred ties, enjoy in her &longs;ociety every blessing
that heaven can be&longs;tow, or you de&longs;ire.”
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“No, Rebecca, no; do not indulge &longs;o vain an idea,
for while you live, and remain unmarried, never &longs;hall
the hymenial torch be lighted by me.”
“Ah!” cried Rebecca, forcing a &longs;mile, “you talk
wildly; we &longs;hall hear you tell a different tale &longs;hortly.”
“But will you not accept the picture as a token of
my e&longs;teem?”
He held it towards her. She put his hand back,
and &longs;aid, in a tone of di&longs;plea&longs;ure, “I can accept no
diamonds, Sir George, and, for heaven's &longs;ake, detain
me no longer here. I have acted very improperly in
talking with you &longs;o long; but I will take care this
&longs;hall be our la&longs;t interview.”
She then court&longs;eyed &longs;lightly, and retired to her apartment,
where con&longs;cious rectitude alone alleviated
the pangs of di&longs;appointed love.
“Yes,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “I have done right; an union
with Sir George would by no means &longs;ecure me permanent
felicity; he is young, volatile, and po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of
violent pa&longs;&longs;ions. Alas! when the novelty of my per&longs;on
was worn off, I might cea&longs;e to charm, and how could
I endure his neglect? be&longs;ides, how ill could my heart
bear that he &longs;hould be &longs;ubject to the &longs;neers of his acquaintance
on my account. Oh! my dear Lady Mary,
you knew what was be&longs;t for me, and never will I forget
your injunctions.”
CHAP. XV. SERVITUDE.
And pray, what do think of my Lady? &longs;aid Mrs.
Lappett to Rebecca, the evening of her arrival
in Bedford-Square.
Lappett was an experienced Abigail. She had lived
with Lady O&longs;&longs;iter from the time of her marriage, and
not, without envy, beheld Rebecca introduced
into the family, as &longs;he feared &longs;he might have a gown or
two the le&longs;s in a year, or, perhaps, Rebecca might
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&longs;upplant her intirely. This jealou&longs;y made her re&longs;olve
to cultivate an intimacy with the un&longs;u&longs;pecting girl, and
be the mo&longs;t forward in &longs;howing her civilities, that &longs;he
might win her confidence, draw from her her real opinion
concerning her Lady, and then betray her. Lappett,
when &longs;he had any favourite point to gain, could
a&longs;&longs;ume a mo&longs;t in&longs;inuating manner. The words that fell
from her tongue were &longs;mooth, and plea&longs;ant as the river's
&longs;urface unruffled by a breeze: but like that, when
the whirlwind of pa&longs;&longs;ion aro&longs;e, di&longs;played the mo&longs;t
frightful contra&longs;t.
“And what do you think of my Lady?” &longs;aid &longs;he,
as &longs;he was taking her tea in Rebecca's apartment.
“I hardly know what to think yet,” replied Rebecca.
“I never judge very ha&longs;tily. She appears extremely
good natured.”
“Ah! my dear, you will know her better by and
bye; there is a deal of difference between old &longs;ervants
and new ones.”
“I &longs;hould be much obliged to you, Mrs. Lappett
to give me &longs;ome little idea of the be&longs;t method to obtain
her approbation.”
“Indeed, that is more than is in my power, child,
for what plea&longs;es to-day may di&longs;plea&longs;e to-morrow: I
never give my&longs;elf much trouble about it. How do you
like the children?”
“They are very fine boys; but I am mo&longs;t plea&longs;ed
with Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter; &longs;he &longs;eems extremely mild and engaging.”
“Well, you are the fir&longs;t per&longs;on I ever heard &longs;ay
they liked her be&longs;t. My lady can't bear her; &longs;he &longs;ays
&longs;he is &longs;o &longs;tupid—.”
“I think it is very wrong,” &longs;aid Rebecca, in the
&longs;implicity of her heart, “for mothers to make any
di&longs;tinction in their regard for their children; and I
&longs;hall con&longs;ider my&longs;elf doubly obliged to be kind and affectionate
to Mi&longs;s, if her mamma is unkind to her.”
“It &longs;hows the goodne&longs;s of your heart, my dear
ma'am,” &longs;aid Lappett, beginning to &longs;ee a little into
the di&longs;po&longs;ition of our heroine. “But, pray, have you
&longs;een my Lord yet?”
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“Yes, once at Twickenham.”
“Well, don't you think him a va&longs;t hand&longs;ome man?”
“He is well enough,” &longs;aid Rebecca, carele&longs;sly;
“but Sir George Worthy is, in my opinion, a great
deal hand&longs;omer.”
“Lord O&longs;&longs;iter is a man of gallantry, though, I a&longs;&longs;ure
you, I mu&longs;t tell you, but it is between our&longs;elves, he
once made propo&longs;als to me.”
“Indeed! Well, I think, you were right to refu&longs;e
him; di&longs;proportionate marriages are &longs;eldom happy.”
“Oh! Lord, my dear, it was not for marriage, I
a&longs;&longs;ure you; it was &longs;ince I lived with my Lady.”
“Good heaven!” cried Rebecca, with a look of
&longs;urpri&longs;e, “what &longs;ince he has been married?”
“Yes; but I would not have you mention it; he
offered me three hundred a year.”
“And how could you remain in the family after
&longs;uch an affront, Mrs. Lappett?”
“Why, I thought it was a pity to lo&longs;e my place,
&longs;o I kept my gentleman at a proper di&longs;tance, and he
dropped the pur&longs;uit: but come, ma'am, let us hurry
the nur&longs;ery maid to put Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter and the young
gentlemen to bed, and then we will go down and take
a game at cards in the hou&longs;ekeeper's room.”
“You will excu&longs;e me, Mrs. Lappett: I never played
a game at cards in my life; be&longs;ides, my Lady has
given me &longs;ome mu&longs;lin to &longs;pot, and I mu&longs;t &longs;et about it.”
“Lord! child, you'll have enough to do if you humour
her by working of an evening.”
“It is my duty to do all that is in my power, and
I had rather work than &longs;it &longs;till.”
“Well, then, bring down your work, you will be
moped to death &longs;itting here by your&longs;elf.”
“Oh! dear, no, I &longs;hall not: I am never lonely.
I work very fa&longs;t, and when I have done a good bit I
can take up a book and read. I would rather not go
down, if you will excu&longs;e me.”
“Ju&longs;t as you plea&longs;e, ma'am,” &longs;aid Lappett; “we
&longs;hall be glad of your company, but if you prefer being
alone —.”
She court&longs;eyed, ironically to&longs;&longs;ed her head, and left
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Rebecca to the enjoyment of her own reflexions, while
&longs;he entertained her fellow &longs;ervants with the pride, conceit,
and ignorance of the new comer. “I tried to get
her down among&longs;t us, that we might have a little fun
with her,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “for you would laugh to hear
how fooli&longs;hly &longs;he talks. She will not &longs;tay here long,
take my word for it.”
At lea&longs;t Mrs. Lappett had re&longs;olved, in her own mind,
to u&longs;e every exertion to di&longs;place Rebecca from a family
where, &longs;he was fearful, her beauty, innocence and worth,
would attract the notice of one, who&longs;e devoirs &longs;he considered
as entirely due to her&longs;elf.
For, to own the truth, Mrs. Lappett had not been
quite &longs;o deaf to the propo&longs;als of her Lord as &longs;he had represented
to Rebecca, though &longs;he rather made a mistake
in &longs;aying his Lord&longs;hip had offered a &longs;ettlement,
that being a mea&longs;ure earne&longs;tly de&longs;ired by her&longs;elf, but
which &longs;he could find no means to bring Lord O&longs;&longs;iter
into: indeed, he had found her too ea&longs;y a conque&longs;ty to
indulge a thought of putting him&longs;elf to much expence
or trouble on her account.
The next morning, when Lady O&longs;&longs;iter had breakfasted,
&longs;he went immediately to the nur&longs;ery, a thing
&longs;he had not been known to do for many months before;
but Rebecca was a novelty, and therefore demanded
from her Lady &longs;ome little attention; as Rebecca had
been told that her Lady &longs;eldom, if ever, came into the
children's apartment, the vi&longs;it was intirely unexpected,
and Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, found her bu&longs;ily employed in arranging
&longs;ome pencils and crayons in a &longs;mall, but elegant,
drawing box, which had been given her by her late
benefactre&longs;s.
She aro&longs;e, and apologized for the confu&longs;ion her
drawings, &c. which had fallen on the floor, had made
in the apartment; “had I known your Lady&longs;hip intended
this honour,”—
“Oh! never mind, child,” cried the Lady, with
a look of infinite good humour, which no woman knew
better how to a&longs;&longs;ume than Lady O&longs;&longs;iter; “I did not
come to di&longs;turb you, but I thought I &longs;hould like you
to hear the children read.”
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“Have they ever been taught their letters, Madam?”
“Why, upon my word, I cannot tell: I believe
Charles can tell them when he &longs;ees them: I have tried
him &longs;ometimes by taking up the news-paper when he
was in the room; but I do not believe Lucy or James
know any thing about it; but call them in, and let us
&longs;ee what they can do.”
Rebecca, who had about two hours before &longs;een them
all neatly dre&longs;&longs;ed, and given them their breakfa&longs;t, opened
the adjoining room to call them, when how great
was her &longs;urpri&longs;e when &longs;he &longs;aw the elde&longs;t boy, who was
eight years old, with two or three colour-&longs;hells before
him, &longs;everal bru&longs;hes, and a ba&longs;on of water, with which
he had not been &longs;atisfied to daub &longs;everal &longs;heets of paper,
and his own clothes, but al&longs;o his brother and &longs;i&longs;ter's
hands, faces, and frocks! Infinitely chagrined that
they &longs;hould be &longs;een by their mother in &longs;uch a condition,
&longs;he turned mildly towards the nur&longs;ery maid, and a&longs;ked
“how &longs;he could be &longs;o neglectful as not to mind what
the children were doing?”
“Mind them your&longs;elf, ma'am,” was the an&longs;wer:
“I thought you came here to help me, not to command
me.”
“I &longs;hall for the future mind them,” &longs;aid Rebecca,
attempting to take the bru&longs;hes from Ma&longs;ter O&longs;&longs;iter.
“You &longs;hall not have them,” &longs;creamed he: “I will
paint when I plea&longs;e; mamma &longs;ays I &longs;hall.”
Rebecca per&longs;i&longs;ted in removing from his reach the
&longs;hells and water, when &longs;etting up a &longs;cream like a bed-lamite,
he threw one, which he had retained in his
hand, full in her face!
“What is the matter?” cried Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, opening
the door. “Come hither, Charles; what do they
do to you, my love?”
“She will not let me play. She has taken away my
paints, and will not let me do any thing.”
“But &longs;he &longs;hall let you do as you plea&longs;e,” &longs;aid the
mother, ki&longs;&longs;ing him, “&longs;o do not cry.”
At that moment another &longs;cream, from the inner apartment,
vibrated in her Lady&longs;hip's ears, and Ma&longs;ter
James and Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter came bellowing into the room,
that “the new maid would wa&longs;h their faces.”
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“Heaven &longs;ave me,” &longs;aid the Lady, “from often
vi&longs;iting the nur&longs;ery! You are enough to drive one mad.
I had hoped, indeed, that you, Rebecca, would have
managed them better than to have had all this uproar;
but I &longs;ee &longs;ervants are all alike; they have no more notion
of the management of children than natural fools:
why, I will an&longs;wer for it, if I had time, I could make
the&longs;e children do ju&longs;t as I plea&longs;e, without any of this
roaring. Do not you think, Charles, you would always
mind me?”
“Oh! yes, mamma; you never contradict me,
but give me every thing I want.”
“Well, go, my dear, go to Rebecca and have your
face wa&longs;hed, and you &longs;hall go out in the coach, and buy
&longs;ome more paints. Do, child, put James and Mi&longs;s
O&longs;&longs;iter on clean frocks, and get your&longs;elf ready to go
out with them. I will hear them read another time;
poor dears, they have been vexed enough this morning:”
then taking her favourite's hand, to lead him
out of the room, &longs;he &longs;topped, and picked up two or
three of Rebecca's drawings.—“Here, my love,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “a&longs;k your maid to give you the&longs;e pretty pictures.”
Rebecca was too meek to contradict, and he marched
off with her two be&longs;t performances in his hand.
In about ten minutes a footman tapped at the door,
to inform Rebecca that the chariot waited, and that &longs;he
mu&longs;t go to her Lady's dre&longs;&longs;ing-room for Ma&longs;ter O&longs;&longs;iter.
Rebecca, who had been accu&longs;tomed to peace and
regularity, was di&longs;tracted by the hurry and confu&longs;ion
&longs;he had been thrown into; but flattering her&longs;elf it
would be better next day, &longs;he made all the ha&longs;te &longs;he
could, and repaired to the dre&longs;&longs;ing-room, where, on a
&longs;ofa, be&longs;ide his mamma, &longs;at the delectable Ma&longs;ter Ossiter,
with a pair of gold-bowed &longs;ci&longs;&longs;ars, cutting the
hou&longs;es, trees, and figures, from her drawings, which
her Lady&longs;hip was amu&longs;ing her&longs;elf by placing in a kind
of fanta&longs;tic medley on the table before her.
“See, Rebecca,” cried &longs;he, we have di&longs;patched
the&longs;e pretty pictures, I dare &longs;ay, a deal quicker than
you made them.”
Rebecca &longs;miled faintly; but &longs;he felt a cold chill &longs;trike
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to her heart. “Alas! Lady Mary would not have
done &longs;o, &longs;ighed &longs;he, &longs;oftly, as &longs;he followed the children
down &longs;tairs, and a tear &longs;tarted in her eye, which &longs;he
was unable to &longs;uppre&longs;s.
“Drive to the toy-&longs;hop,” &longs;aid Ma&longs;ter O&longs;&longs;iter, as
the man &longs;hut the chariot-door, “and &longs;ee what mamma
has given me,” continued he, pulling half a guinea
from his pocket, and &longs;howing it to his brother and sister:
“and I am to lay it out ju&longs;t as I plea&longs;e.”
As the chariot &longs;topped at the &longs;hop door, a poor man,
pale and emaciated, with but one leg, took off his hat,
bowed, but did not &longs;peak.
“Look at that poor man, my dear,” &longs;aid Rebecca;
“he would be very thankful for a &longs;mall part of your
money; &longs;uppo&longs;e you was to give him a &longs;hilling?”
“What &longs;hould I give him a &longs;hilling for?” &longs;aid the
child.
“Becau&longs;e he is in great di&longs;tre&longs;s; &longs;ee how pale he
looks, and what a thin ragged coat he has on this cold
day!”
“Well, what is that to me?”
“Suppo&longs;e, Ma&longs;ter O&longs;&longs;iter, you were cold and hungry?”
“That you know is impo&longs;&longs;ible.”
“Impo&longs;&longs;ible! Sir.”
“Yes, to be &longs;ure; a'nt I a Lord's &longs;on, and &longs;hall
not I be a Lord my&longs;elf, if I live long enough? and,
you know, Lords are never poor.”
“Then is it the more their duty to relieve tho&longs;e
that are.”
“Duty!” &longs;aid he, &longs;taring in her face; “mamma
never gives any thing to poor folks; &longs;he &longs;ays they
&longs;hould be all &longs;ent to pri&longs;on, and made work.”
This dialogue had pa&longs;&longs;ed in the &longs;hop, and the miserable
&longs;ubject of it &longs;till was at the door. Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter
put her little hand in&longs;tinctively into her pocket.
“If I had any money; but mamma don't very often
give me any.” Then approaching Rebecca, in a kind
of half whi&longs;per, “If you, ma'am, will give the poor
man half a crown, I will a&longs;k my uncle for one to pay
you with the fir&longs;t time I &longs;ee him.”
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Rebecca gazed on the child as &longs;he was &longs;peaking, and
&longs;he fancied &longs;he beheld her grandmother's benevolence
play about her infant countenance.—She caught her
in her arms, gave the de&longs;ired half crown, and joy for
a moment animated her bo&longs;om, when &longs;he beheld both
the beggar and his little benefactre&longs;s look equally happy.
CHAP. XVI. MODERN MANNERS.
A Few days after this Lady O&longs;&longs;iter &longs;ent for Rebecca,
in ha&longs;te, to her dre&longs;&longs;ing-room. “You
&longs;eem to have &longs;ome ta&longs;te for drawing child,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“pray can you paint flowers.”
“A little, madam.”
“Well, now I want you to do &longs;omething for me;
I la&longs;t night &longs;aw the mo&longs;t beautiful painted trimming,
and I'll take you to a &longs;hop this morning where you &longs;hall
&longs;ee &longs;ome like it; if you think you can do it, I &longs;hall
be va&longs;tly plea&longs;ed, for there is a ball next week.”
“But your lady&longs;hip is in mourning,” &longs;aid Rebecca,
blu&longs;hing for her lady's folly.
“Oh, la! well, I prote&longs;t I forgot that, but now,
I dare &longs;ay you could fancy me &longs;omething pretty in
black and white; do try child: I &longs;hall change my
mourning in about a month, and I think you can do
it in that time.”
“If I knew what would plea&longs;e your Lady&longs;hip.”
“Do it according to your own ta&longs;te, Rebecca, and
I am &longs;ure it will be pretty.”
The good natured Rebecca was willing to plea&longs;e to
the utmo&longs;t of her power, but, alas, that power was far
from adequate to the many ta&longs;ks impo&longs;ed upon her.
Mrs. Lappett was a great favourite, therefore often
a&longs;ked leave to go out, and then Rebecca was &longs;ummoned
to attend the toilette of her lady, and indeed her ta&longs;te
and judgment in the arrangement of female ornaments
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was &longs;o elegant, that Lady O&longs;&longs;iter never appeared to
greater advantage than when dre&longs;&longs;ed by her hands.
Then was a morning cap to be made, or a dre&longs;s fre&longs;h
trimmed, they were all brought to Rebecca; and did
her Lady&longs;hip ever a&longs;k for any thing that was not ready,
the an&longs;wer was, indeed, my Lady, I gave it to Rebecca,
two or three days ago, but &longs;he is &longs;uch a fine
lady, and &longs;pends &longs;o much time at her book and her music.
In the mean time our fair heroine was &longs;acrificing her
health to the vain hope of obtaining the approbation
of her lady, &longs;he had not a moment for the mo&longs;t trifling
relaxation; obliged to ri&longs;e early, on account of the
children, for the very nur&longs;ery maid impo&longs;ed upon her
good nature, and left her entirely to dre&longs;s and undre&longs;s
them. Mrs. Lappett would, if in the lea&longs;t indi&longs;po&longs;ed,
retire to re&longs;t, and leave Rebecca to &longs;it up for her lady,
who was addicted to the fa&longs;hionable vice of gaming,
and often was from home till four, five, nay &longs;ometimes
fix o'clock in the morning; and when &longs;he had ill luck,
would return in the mo&longs;t diabolical humour, and vent
that &longs;pleen which politene&longs;s obliged her to conceal in
company, on her meek unoffending attendant; indeed
to &longs;uch height did &longs;he often &longs;uffer her pa&longs;&longs;ion to ri&longs;e,
that Rebecca, on hearing the knocker announce her
arrival, would fall into &longs;uch a fit of trembling, that &longs;he
was &longs;carcely able to &longs;tand, while &longs;he undre&longs;&longs;ed her.
But the reader mu&longs;t not &longs;uppo&longs;e that, during this period,
either Sir George or Lord O&longs;&longs;iter had forgot her; the
former had written her &longs;everal letters, which &longs;he returned
unopened; for, &longs;aid &longs;he, con&longs;cious as I am of my
own weakne&longs;s, why &longs;hould I wilfully expo&longs;e it to trials
it may not be able to with&longs;tand. At length, wearied
out with her inflexible re&longs;olution, he determined to
take a trip to the continent, and endeavour to bani&longs;h
her from his thoughts; but before he went, he determined
at lea&longs;t to put it in her power to leave his &longs;i&longs;ter
whenever her &longs;ituation became painful, without being
obliged to have recour&longs;e to &longs;ervitude again. And Mrs.
Harley was the per&longs;on he determined to employ on this
occa&longs;ion.
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Lord O&longs;&longs;iter had made frequent attempts to &longs;ee and
conver&longs;e with Rebecca, but &longs;he was &longs;o much in the apartment
with the children, or in her lady's dre&longs;&longs;ing
room, with Lappett, that he found it more difficult
than he at fir&longs;t imagined, and he was too cautious in
his affairs of gallantry to u&longs;e pen and paper.
Lord and Lady O&longs;&longs;iter were a very fa&longs;hionable couple;
they had married without affection, becau&longs;e their friends
thought they were exactly &longs;uitable for each other in
birth and fortune; his Lord&longs;hip had always kept up a
&longs;how of politene&longs;s towards his wife, &longs;eldom contradicted
her or complained of her expences, though in his
heart he de&longs;pi&longs;ed her pride and affectation, and laughed
at her ab&longs;urdity. He knew her well enough, to be
certain his honour was perfectly &longs;afe in her keeping, not
from a conviction of her principles being ju&longs;t or her virtue
impregnable, but he was fully &longs;en&longs;ible that &longs;elf-love
was her prevalent pa&longs;&longs;ion, and though &longs;he was distractedly
fond of admiration, her heart was animated by
none of tho&longs;e &longs;en&longs;ibilities which, though they in general
elevate the female mind, not unfrequently lay it
open to the greate&longs;t errors.
One morning, as Rebecca was intently engaged in
completing the trimming we have mentioned, Mrs.
Harley unexpectedly entered the room.
A faint gleam of plea&longs;ure animated the countenance,
and beamed from the eyes of Rebecca, as &longs;he aro&longs;e to
receive this faithful &longs;ervant of Lady Mary's.
“Mrs. Harley,” &longs;aid &longs;he, taking her cordially by
the hand, “to what am I to attribute this unexpected
plea&longs;ure.”
Struck with her palid cheeks and altered air, Harley
fir&longs;t bru&longs;hed off a &longs;tarting tear and then di&longs;clo&longs;ed her
errand—
“I come, my dear Mi&longs;s, from my good young
ma&longs;ter—”
“If to bring me a letter,” &longs;aid Rebecca, interrupting
her, “I mu&longs;t beg you to excu&longs;e me—”
“My dear child,” &longs;aid Harley, “don't fly out in
this manner, but li&longs;ten to me attentively; I have children
of my own, Mi&longs;s Littleton, and heaven forbid I
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&longs;hould ever advi&longs;e a young innocent creature to a wrong
&longs;tep; tru&longs;t me, I am actuated only by friend&longs;hip, when
I entreat you to inform me what motives you have for
thus ob&longs;tinately refu&longs;ing the offers of a man of rank and
fortune, who loves you honourably and &longs;incerely.”
“Do not a&longs;k me, dear Harley; do not let us talk
on this &longs;ubject.”
“We will talk on no other then, for &longs;ure I am
there mu&longs;t be &longs;ome powerful rea&longs;on for your conduct.
Is your heart otherways engaged? Does want of fortune
prevent your happine&longs;s?”
“Ah, no! no! my friend,” cried Rebecca, her
head falling on Harley's &longs;houlder, and her eyes filling
with tears; I am unhappy becau&longs;e I am not insensible.”
“You talk in riddles, my dear; if you are not insensible—”
“Oh, &longs;top! &longs;top! you mu&longs;t &longs;ay no more, unle&longs;s
you mean to break my heart; for, alas, Harley, the
la&longs;t time I &longs;aw my dear departed Lady Mary, I promised
her, &longs;olemnly promi&longs;ed her, by every hope of
&longs;elicity, never to li&longs;ten to an overture of love from Sir
George; and never, no never, while I retain the lea&longs;t
remembrance of what is pa&longs;t, will I break a vow &longs;o
&longs;olemnly given.”
“This family pride,” &longs;aid Harley, “was the only
foible my lady had.”
“She had no foible,” &longs;aid Rebecca; “it was a
wi&longs;h to in&longs;ure my felicity alone, prompted the reque&longs;t.”
“Whatever was her motive, my dear Mi&longs;s, promi&longs;es
when once made &longs;hould be &longs;acredly ob&longs;erved; I will
therefore &longs;ay no more to you on the &longs;ubject: Sir
George, &longs;ince &longs;atisfied you will not accept his offers, is
re&longs;olved next Monday to leave England.”
Rebecca turned pale, and Harley continued.
“He means to &longs;pend the winter on the continent,
but has de&longs;ired you will accept his mother's picture,
which he has had fre&longs;h &longs;et on purpo&longs;e for you, and this
trifle, laying a bank note for five hundred pounds on
the table. Now I will have no qualms and &longs;queami&longs;h
non&longs;en&longs;e, Mi&longs;s Littleton; I am certain my lady meant
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to have provided for you—more &longs;hame for &longs;ome folks that
they forget her la&longs;t commands; but we cannot always
make people do as they ought. Now, you mu&longs;t take this
money, and con&longs;ider it as her beque&longs;t. I am &longs;ure you will
find it nece&longs;&longs;ary very &longs;oon to quit this family; your dear
pale cheeks and heavy eyes tell me you &longs;hould at this moment
be in your bed, rather than at work.” She then
drew out the picture, which was only &longs;et in plain gold.
Rebecca took it, pre&longs;&longs;ed it to her lips, and, tying the
ribbon that was fixed to it round her neck, placed it as a
&longs;acred depo&longs;it in her bo&longs;om. She al&longs;o took the bank note
and put it in her pocket book, but &longs;ecretly re&longs;olved that
nothing but the &longs;ever&longs;t nece&longs;&longs;ity &longs;hould tempt her to
break into it.
When Monday arrived, Rebecca could not avoid approaching
the window at the &longs;ound of every carriage that
drew up to the door.
“He will not &longs;urely leave England,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “without
taking leave of his &longs;i&longs;ter.”
About two o'clock &longs;he &longs;aw his chariot draw up to the
door, and, half concealing her&longs;elf behind the window
&longs;hutter, gazed on him, and breathed a prayer for his felicity,
as &longs;he &longs;aw him alight. In about half an hour &longs;he
was de&longs;ired to bring Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter and Ma&longs;ter James into
the drawing-room. She took them to the door, opened
it and put them in, but her feelings were too powerful to
permit her to enter.
“Ah, uncle,” &longs;aid Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter, running eagerly to Sir
George, “I am glad you are come, I have been waiting
for you this long, long time.”
“Well, my dear Lucy,” &longs;aid he, fondly taking her on
his knee, “and what might make you wi&longs;h to &longs;ee me &longs;o
much.”
“Becau&longs;e I love you dearly,” &longs;aid &longs;he, throwing her
little arms round his neck, “but that a'nt all.”
“No! what el&longs;e was it then?”
She lowered her voice, and, clapping her mouth clo&longs;e
to his ear, &longs;aid, “I owe my maid half-a-crown, and I
told her you would pay her.”
“Sir George was &longs;urpri&longs;ed. “And pray how does
that happen?” &longs;aid he.
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“Rebecca lent it me,” &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;till lowering her voice,
“to give a poor man.”
“Rebecca, what Rebecca?” &longs;aid Sir George, a&longs;toni&longs;hed.
“Why, Rebecca,” replied the child; “my own maid
Rebecca, that teaches me to read and &longs;ay my prayers,
and tells me if I am good I &longs;hall go to heaven.”
“What &longs;tuff is the child talking?” &longs;aid Lady O&longs;&longs;iter,
catching the la&longs;t word.
Sir George was too much affected to &longs;peak; he put a
couple of guineas into Lucy's hand, and ha&longs;tily ki&longs;&longs;ing
them all, hurried out of the hou&longs;e; as he &longs;eated him&longs;elf
in the chai&longs;e, he ca&longs;t his eyes towards the upper windows.
Rebecca caught the glance; the impul&longs;e was irre&longs;i&longs;tible;
&longs;he threw up the &longs;a&longs;h.
Sir George ki&longs;&longs;ed his hand, while his countenance betrayed
the feelings of his &longs;oul.
Rebecca laid her's on her heart, then rai&longs;ed them towards
heaven, as &longs;he would have &longs;aid, “God ble&longs;s you.”
“Drive on,” &longs;aid Sir George, and again bowing his
head to hide his emotions from the &longs;ervants, a moment
conveyed him from her &longs;ight.
CHAP. XVII. GALLANTRY, JEALOUSY, AND INTEGRITY.
“I Do not think, my dear,” &longs;aid Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, as he
was taking his chocolate in his lady's dre&longs;&longs;ing-room,
one morning about a fortnight after Sir George's departure.
“I do not think it will be in my power to join the
intended party at Lady Rackett's to-night.”
“Some new engagement, my Lord,” &longs;aid her Ladyship,
&longs;miling affectedly.
“Not a very agreeable one,” he replied. “I am obliged
to go into the City, on &longs;ome infernal bu&longs;ine&longs;s with my
banker: the&longs;e monied men are the mo&longs;t tire&longs;ome animals in
the creation. He &longs;ays I have overdrawn him, and de&longs;ires I
will come and examine my accounts; it is a cur&longs;ed &longs;tupid
affair, and I don't often concern my&longs;elf about &longs;uch things,
but the fellow is &longs;o pre&longs;&longs;ing.”
“But perhaps you can get away in time to dre&longs;s and
join us, my Lord, before &longs;upper.”
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“I will, if po&longs;&longs;ible, but I dare &longs;ay the wretch will make
me as &longs;tupid as him&longs;elf before I have done with his di&longs;counts
and intere&longs;ts, &longs;o I &longs;hall be horrid bad company; therefore
it is mo&longs;t likely I &longs;hall come home and go to bed.”
“To bed, my Lord,” cried her Lady&longs;hip, laughing;
“why, &longs;ure you are going to take pattern by the &longs;ober cit.”
Though Lady O&longs;&longs;iter pretended to de&longs;ire her Lord's
company, it was, in fact, the farthe&longs;t thing from her wishes.
She had for &longs;ome time pa&longs;t been admired and followed
by the Duke of—; a conque&longs;t &longs;o brilliant and unexpected,
was the highe&longs;t gratification to this vain woman,
and &longs;he had heard with plea&longs;ure her hu&longs;band's intended appointment
in the city, as &longs;he was re&longs;olved to &longs;ee his Grace
for half an hour at home, previous to their meeting at Lady
Rackett's ball, where &longs;he was engaged to dance with him.
But Lord O&longs;&longs;iter had frequently given her a few pretty
plain hints in regard to her conduct with her noble admirer,
and therefore, though &longs;he had re&longs;olved to &longs;ee him,
&longs;he thought it would be be&longs;t to do it privately, and Lappett
being unfortunately gone to vi&longs;it a &longs;ick brother in the
country, &longs;he was obliged to make Rebecca her con&longs;idante
on the occa&longs;ion, and immediately, on retiring from breakfast,
&longs;he &longs;ummoned her to her dre&longs;&longs;ing-room.
“Rebecca, child,” &longs;aid &longs;he, as &longs;he entered, “I think
I have not given you any thing &longs;ince you have been with
me, and you have done more than half of Lappett's bu&longs;ine&longs;s
for her; there is that blue &longs;atin gown and coat, you may
take it, and as it is rather &longs;oiled, here is &longs;omething to pay
for the dying and making up, pre&longs;enting her with a couple
of guineas. Do you know, child, (continued &longs;he) I
have taken the &longs;trange&longs;t whim in my head, and you mu&longs;t
lend me your a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance. I think that trimming you made
me extremely pretty, I dare &longs;ay it will be greatly admired.”
“I am happy it plea&longs;es you, Madam,” &longs;aid Rebecca:
“but I thought you were &longs;aying you would have it altered.”
“Oh, no, I was not &longs;peaking of my dre&longs;s then; I
think nothing can be more elegant or better fancied, but
you have a charming ta&longs;te, that is certain. No, I was
going to tell you of a &longs;trange whim I had taken to play a
trick with the old Duke of—; for, do you know
Rebecca, the man makes downright love to me whenever
he meets me, and the other day, when he was here, he left
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behind him the&longs;e &longs;uperb bracelets. Now, I have a mind
to mortify him, and as my Lord is going into the City, I
will &longs;end to the Duke to come here that I may have an
opportunity to return his pre&longs;ent and laugh at him.”
“Would it not be better to &longs;end them to him,” &longs;aid
Rebecca.
“Oh, no, that will not do half &longs;o well, for then, I
&longs;hould not have the &longs;atisfaction of &longs;eeing his chagrin, &longs;o,
Rebecca, you &longs;hall take a note, which I will write, and
&longs;end it, unknown to any of the other &longs;ervants, and when
his grace comes he &longs;hall come di&longs;gui&longs;ed, and pa&longs;s for your
brother, and you can bring him to my dre&longs;&longs;ing-room.”
“Your Lady&longs;hip will pardon me,” &longs;aid Rebecca, laying
the two guineas on the table, “I am not fit to engage
in &longs;uch a &longs;ervice; I would much rather decline it.”
“Decline it!” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip, reddening; “pray
are you not my &longs;ervant?”
“Undoubtedly Madam.”
“And is it not your duty to obey my orders?”
“When they are proper.”
“And pray are you to be the judge of what is proper or
improper in my actions?
“By no means; but your Lady&longs;hip will allow me to
judge of my own.”
“Oh, certainly Madam, if you are too &longs;queami&longs;h to
enter into &longs;o innocent a &longs;cheme.”
“I make no doubt but your de&longs;igns, Madam, are perfectly
innocent, but where there is my&longs;lery there is always
room for &longs;u&longs;picion, and &longs;hould my Lord di&longs;cover it—”
“But how can he, child, if you are di&longs;creet.”
“I am determined to be &longs;o, Madam, and hope you will
pardon my temerity, if I humbly entreat you to drop this
de&longs;ign.”
“Prithee, good madam pert,” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip,
&longs;cornfully, “do not pretend to more delicacy and virtue
than your betters. I have as high a regard for my honour
as any woman can have, but I may indulge my&longs;elf, I hope,
in a little innocent gallantry for all that. Go; I &longs;hell not
want you till I dre&longs;s.”
Rebecca retired, and for this once the pain her lady's
anger gave her was more than counterbalanced by the
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reflexion that &longs;he had acted right in rejecting the infamous
&longs;ervice &longs;he would have employed her in.
Contrary to her Lady's expectation, Rebecca had scarcely
reached her own apartment when Lappett returned,
and entered the dre&longs;&longs;ing-room, to receive Lady O&longs;&longs;iter's
command.
“Well, Lappett,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “you are returned in very
good time, for I have been &longs;o gro&longs;sly affronted by that little
prude, Rebecca, that I can hardly contain my anger;
do you know the impertinent creature had the audacity to
refu&longs;e getting me a note conveyed to the Duke of—;
though I had conde&longs;cended to inform her that my intentions
were only to laugh at him. You know, Lappett, there
is not a woman breathing would be more cautious than
my&longs;elf in doing any thing improper.”
“Dear, my Lady, I am &longs;ure of that; nor is your Ladyship,
by any means, obligated to enter into explanations
with your &longs;ervants, to &longs;peak your command is always &longs;ufficient
cient to have them in&longs;tantly obeyed.”
The ob&longs;equious abigail took the note, conveyed it herself,
and at eight o'clock in the evening his Grace was admitted
to her Lady's dre&longs;&longs;ing-room.
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter meant nothing le&longs;s than to over-step the
boundaries of di&longs;cretion in this tete-a-tete. The Duke
was to her an object of di&longs;gu&longs;t, but flattery was delightful
to her ears, and pearls and diamonds were pretty ornaments
in her opinion, ea&longs;ily purcha&longs;ed by a little conde&longs;ension
and &longs;he flattered her&longs;elf, that while &longs;he remained virtuous in
one great point, &longs;he might indulge her&longs;elf in every other
imprudence, and de&longs;y the cen&longs;ures of the world.
But it was the opinion of Rebecca, that every truly virtuous
woman &longs;hould carefully avoid even the appearance of
indi&longs;cretion, e&longs;pecially tho&longs;e who&longs;e elevated &longs;tations might
render their examples infinitely pernicious to their inferiors:
&longs;he therefore felt her&longs;elf greatly hurt by Lady Ossiter's
want of prudence, and flattered her&longs;elf the repul&longs;e &longs;he
had met from her would prevent her making her de&longs;igns
known to any other &longs;ervant, and &longs;he readily imagined
Mrs. Lappett would be as unwilling as her&longs;elf to engage in
the bu&longs;ne&longs;s; &longs;o when informed &longs;he was returned, Rebecca
found her&longs;elf &longs;omewhat relieved, as &longs;he knew &longs;he &longs;hould
avoid the painful ta&longs;k of dre&longs;&longs;ing a woman whom &longs;he feared
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The ob&longs;equious abigail took the note, conveyed it herself,
and at eight o'clock in the evening his Grace was admitted
to her Lady's dre&longs;&longs;ing-room.
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter meant nothing le&longs;s than to over-step the
boundaries of di&longs;cretion in this tete-a-tete, the Duke
was to her an object of di&longs;gu&longs;t, but flattery was delightful
to her ears, and pearls and diamonds were pretty ornaments
in her opinion, ea&longs;ily purcha&longs;ed by a little conde&longs;eention;
and &longs;he flettered her&longs;elf, that while &longs;he remained virtuous in
one great point, &longs;he might indulge her&longs;elf in every other
inprudence, and defy the cen&longs;ures of the world.
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would be predetermined not to be plea&longs;ed with her utmo&longs;t
exertion.
While the Duke and her Lady&longs;hip were together, the
artful Lappett thought &longs;he would ju&longs;t &longs;tep in and hear
what Rebecca had to &longs;ay on the &longs;ubject, for, by her specious
appearance of friend&longs;hip, &longs;he had &longs;o won on the unsuspicious
heart of our heroine, that &longs;he never &longs;crupled to
communicate to her every thought as it aro&longs;e, except
tho&longs;e which concerned Sir George, (and tho&longs;e &longs;he endeavoured
to conceal, if po&longs;&longs;ible, even from her&longs;elf.)
“So,” cried Lappett, &longs;itting down, “my Lady and
you had a tiff to day, I find.”
“We did not quite agree,” &longs;aid Rebecca, &longs;lightly,
“but I dare &longs;ay &longs;he has forgot it by this time; I am &longs;ure
I do not wi&longs;h to remember it.”
“I &longs;uppose &longs;he wanted you to get a letter conveyed to
the Duke.”
“What then &longs;he has told you her&longs;elf, has &longs;he?”
“Oh, Yes, the moment I came in. I declare it is a
pity my Lord is not acquainted with her conduct?”
“It would be a cruel thing, Mrs. Lappett, to plant dissension
between man and wife: be&longs;ides, I dare &longs;ay, my
Lady, though imprudent, is not criminal.”
“To be &longs;ure my Lady has &longs;ome excu&longs;e; my Lord is
always after other women: he is &longs;eldom at home, and
I am certain don't care a pin about his wife.”
“Perhaps if her Lady&longs;hip was more attentive to increa&longs;e
his dome&longs;tic comforts, he would nece&longs;&longs;arily grow more attached
to home, but while &longs;he is &longs;o extravagantly fond of
di&longs;&longs;ipation, and while the four honours have the power to
keep her from home, night after night, can we be surprised
if her hu&longs;band &longs;eeks abroad for that felicity he is
&longs;ure of not meeting in his own hou&longs;e.”
“Why, to &longs;ay truth, my Lady is a &longs;ad rake.”
“And her children, Mrs. Lappett, &longs;he pays but little
attention to them, nor will &longs;he &longs;uffer any other per&longs;on to
do it. Can there be a more lovely or engaging child than
Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter. I am &longs;ure the little time I have to in&longs;truct
her is amply repaid by her docility and attention; as to
Ma&longs;ter O&longs;&longs;iter and his brother James, they are &longs;o humoured,
e&longs;pecially the former, that it requires greater powers than
I am po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of to make them attend to any thing.”
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“I suppose &longs;he wanted you to get a letter conveyed to
the Duke.”
“What then &longs;he has told you her&longs;elf, has &longs;he?”
“Oh, Yes, the moment I came in. I declare it is a
pity my Lord is not acquainted with her conduct.”
“ would be a cruel thing, Mrs. Lappett, to plant difsension
between man and wife: be&longs;ides, I dare &longs;ay, my
Lady, though imprudent, is not criminal.”
“To be &longs;ure my Lady has &longs;ome excu&longs;e; my Lord is
always after other women: he is seldom at home, and
I am certain don't care a pin about his wife.”
“Perhaps if her Lady&longs;hip was more attentive to increa&longs;e
his dome&longs;tic comforts, he would nece&longs;&longs;arily grow more attached
to home, but while &longs;he is so extravagantly fond of
di&longs;&longs;ipation, and while the four honours have the power to
keep her from home, night after night, can we be surprised
if her hu&longs;band &longs;eeks abroad for that felicity he is
&longs;ure of not meeting in his own hou&longs;e.
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“He is very pa&longs;&longs;ionate,” &longs;aid Lappett.
“Extremely &longs;o,” replied the artle&longs;s Rebecca; “be&longs;ides
which, he is cruel, mi&longs;chievous, and a great liar, and the&longs;e
things &longs;hould be corrected in time, or he will be as despicable
when a man, as he is now di&longs;agreeable as a child.”
“His temper is very like his mother's.”
“I think there is &longs;ome &longs;imilitude between them, for indeed,
Mrs. Lappett, I do not know how you acquire fortitude
to &longs;upport it, but my Lady is &longs;ometimes &longs;o passionate
and capricious I am ready to die with vexation, and,
though my heart be ready to bur&longs;t, in her pre&longs;ence I dare
not &longs;hed a tear, for if &longs;ometimes, when I can no longer
&longs;uppre&longs;s them, they will bur&longs;t forth, &longs;he reproaches me
with childi&longs;hne&longs;s, pa&longs;&longs;ion, and folly. Folly it is, I will
own, to let the behaviour of &longs;o unfeeling a woman wound
my &longs;en&longs;ibility; but yet when I know that I do my duty
to the utmo&longs;t of my power, it is very hard to meet with
nothing in return but taunts and unkindne&longs;s.”
“So it is indeed, my dear, but you mu&longs;t keep up your
&longs;pirits.”
“I do, Mrs. Lappett, as well as I can, but my Lady
&longs;ometimes a&longs;ks me what I am fit for? and if &longs;he had not
taken me, who would? That my Lord often tells her, he
wonders &longs;he will keep &longs;o awkward a creature about her. I
am &longs;en&longs;ible I have many obligations to her Lady&longs;hip's family,
but can I help my inexperience, unacquainted as I
am with &longs;ervitude?”
“No, to be &longs;ure, you cannot: but my Lady will want
me, and I &longs;hall come in for my &longs;hare, for I do a&longs;&longs;ure you
child, we get it all round in turn; but you will know how
to bear the&longs;e things better in time.”
Lappett returned to her Lady and not only repeated but
exaggerated every thing which Rebecca, in the &longs;implicity
of her heart, had uttered.
“Ungrateful creature,” &longs;aid the Lady, “after what I
have done for her.”
“Ungrateful indeed, Madam. I wonder your Ladyship
will keep her.”
“I &longs;hall not keep her long, Lappett; I a&longs;&longs;ure you, I
am quite &longs;ick of her airs and impertinence.”
The clock had &longs;truck ten, the children were in bed, and
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter ju&longs;t &longs;tepped into her chair and gone towards
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Cavendi&longs;h-Square, the &longs;ervants retired to the lower apartments,
and &longs;ilence &longs;eemed to reign throughout the hou&longs;e.
Rebecca, wearied with the fatigue and vexation of the day,
thought &longs;he might this evening &longs;afely indulge, in a relaxation,
which &longs;he had not enjoyed &longs;ince her re&longs;idence in
Lady O&longs;&longs;iter's family, which was to practice a few hours
on the harp&longs;icord. She took her mu&longs;ic books and a candle,
and went to a &longs;mall parlour, in a retired part of the
hou&longs;e, where &longs;tood a &longs;ine toned in&longs;trument, and where &longs;he
&longs;at down and amu&longs;ed her&longs;elf, unthinking how time pa&longs;t,
and entirely inattentive to the foot&longs;teps that pa&longs;&longs;ed and repassed
the door of the apartment. The mu&longs;ic &longs;oothed and
compo&longs;ed the perturbation of her &longs;pirits. She played several
little plaintive airs, and accompanied them with her
voice; and among the re&longs;t, the &longs;ong &longs;he was &longs;igning when
Sir George fir&longs;t &longs;aw her. When &longs;he had got nearly through
it, the remembrance of that &longs;cene—the &longs;triking contra&longs;t
of her &longs;ituation then and now, &longs;truck &longs;o forcibly on her
imagination that &longs;he was unable to proceed. She pau&longs;ed,
and tears involuntarily &longs;tole down her cheeks; her amusement
was ended; &longs;he ro&longs;e from her &longs;eat, and was &longs;hutting
the book, when &longs;omebody laid hold of her, and repeating,
—as the maid retired,
He ki&longs;s'd her tears away.
cla&longs;ped her rudely in his arms and &longs;natched a ki&longs;s.
Rebecca, too much terrified to &longs;cream, could only endeavour
to di&longs;engage her&longs;elf, and turning round, beheld
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter.
“If I have alarmed you, my dear creature,” &longs;aid his
Lord&longs;hip, “I humbly entreat your pardon. But do not
let me interrupt your amu&longs;ement; come, &longs;it down again,
and let me hear that charming &longs;ong you were &longs;inging
when I entered the room.”
“Your Lord&longs;hip will pardon me, I had no intention of
being heard by any one;—I have &longs;ome orders to execute
for my Lady.”
“Nay, nay, you do not get off &longs;o ea&longs;ily. Do you
know, my lovely girl, I have been ab&longs;olutely expiring
from the fir&longs;t moment I beheld you, for an opportunity
to tell you how much I admire and adore you.”
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“Surely your Lord&longs;hip cannot &longs;eriou&longs;ly mean to in&longs;ult
me.”
“In&longs;ult you, my angel, no, by heavens I would sacrifice
the wretch who &longs;hould dare to offend you:—No, my
dear girl, I mean to offer you love and affluence in the
room of dependence and poverty. I will place you in your
proper &longs;phere: &longs;uch beauty and elegance were not formed
for &longs;ervitude. Come, li&longs;ten to me, I will furni&longs;h you a
hou&longs;e, keep you a chariot, and &longs;ettle five hundred a year.”
“Gracious heaven,” cried Rebecca, bur&longs;ting into tears,
“to what am I expo&longs;ed.”
“P&longs;haw, p&longs;haw, this is all prudery and non&longs;en&longs;e; come,
dry your tears and let us go to my jeweller's, and you
&longs;hall take your choice of whatever trinkets his &longs;hop affords,
I will not limit you as to the &longs;um.”
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter had but an indifferent opinion of female
delicacy; he thought the word virtue very pretty in the
mouth of a pretty woman, but as to the reality exi&longs;ting
in the heart, he thought no woman po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed &longs;o large a
&longs;hare but money, jewels, and flattery could lull it to &longs;leep;
how a&longs;toni&longs;hed was he then to find, upon taking a few liberties
with Rebecca, &longs;he &longs;hrunk in&longs;tinctively from him,
&longs;hrieked faintly, and, &longs;taggering a few paces toward the
door, fell lifele&longs;s to the floor.
Terrified, he caught her from the ground, and ringing
the bell with violence, began to tear open her gown and
handkerchief, in order to give her air. “My dear, my
lovely girl,” &longs;aid he, “for heaven's &longs;ake revive.” Then
placing her on a &longs;ofa, he &longs;eated him&longs;elf be&longs;ide her, and
re&longs;ted her head on his &longs;houlder.
At that moment who &longs;hould appear at the door but
Mrs. Lappett, all the fury of a jealous enraged woman
fla&longs;hing from her eyes.
“My dear Lappett,” &longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip, “I happened
to come unexpectedly into the room where this poor girl
was amu&longs;ing her&longs;elf, and &longs;ee how it has frightened her;
do get a little water.”
But Lappett was not to be deceived: &longs;he had heard him
utter words of tenderne&longs;s, and was &longs;ufficiently convinced
Rebecca was her rival.
“The creature is &longs;o affected,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “I declare there
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is no bearing her, but I a&longs;&longs;ure your Lord&longs;hip I have something
el&longs;e to do than to wait on the dear lovely girl.”
Rebecca was now recovering, and, rai&longs;ing her head, &longs;he
caught hold of Lappett's gown, as &longs;he turned to leave the
room, and exclaimed, “Do not leave me, &longs;tay, &longs;ave me,
take me from this place.”
“Indeed, Madam, I am in a hurry,” cried Lappett,
twitching her gown from the feeble gra&longs;p of Rebecca, and
flung out of the room, audibly &longs;aying, “Her Lady &longs;hould
be informed what &longs;ort of a per&longs;on &longs;he had in her family.”
Rebecca aro&longs;e, di&longs;engaged her&longs;elf from his Lord&longs;hip's
arms, who no longer attempted to detain her, and with
trembling &longs;teps returned to her apartment.
CHAP. XVIII. FASHIONABLE LEVITIES.
“So, Madam, cried Lappett, as &longs;he was a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ting her
Lady to ri&longs;e the next morning; “&longs;o, Madam,
though Mrs. Rebecca was &longs;o delicate as to refu&longs;e conveying
a letter to his Grace, &longs;he has no objection to private
interviews with my Lord. Oh, I could have torn the
creature's eyes out, an impertinent minx.”
“What are you talking of, Lappett,” &longs;aid her Ladyship,
with the greate&longs;t compo&longs;ure, “I prote&longs;t you &longs;eem
out of your &longs;en&longs;es.”
“I am, my Lady, almo&longs;t, for when I reflect on &longs;o
kind, &longs;o good a Lady as your&longs;elf being treated in &longs;uch a
barbarous manner: why, Madam, after you were gone
la&longs;t night, I went up to &longs;ee if Rebecca was doing the
dre&longs;s your Lady&longs;hip &longs;aid you would wear on Thur&longs;day,
and I could not find her; however, as I knew &longs;he sometimes
went to the library when you were not at home,
and &longs;taid and read for two or three hours, I &longs;at down and
began a little of it my&longs;elf, but, after working till pa&longs;t
twelve o'clock, I thought it was very odd where &longs;he could
be, &longs;o I went down the back &longs;tairs, thinking perhaps
I &longs;hould find her in the hou&longs;ekeeper's room, but as I
pa&longs;t the little mu&longs;ic parlour, I heard the &longs;ound of voice
and opening the door, what does your Lady&longs;hip think,
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I di&longs;covered, I thought I &longs;hould have &longs;wooned away, for
there &longs;at Rebecca, fa&longs;t locked in my Lord's arms, and
her head leaned on his &longs;houlders.”
“Very well,” cried Lady O&longs;&longs;iter, peevi&longs;hly, the crimson
of re&longs;entment ru&longs;hing over her face and neck, “why
am I plagued with this long &longs;tory: one would think you
were jealous of the creature, by the pa&longs;&longs;ion you are in.”
“I jealous, my Lady, does your Lady&longs;hip think?”—
“Oh, no! I don't think about it; I &longs;uppo&longs;e my Lord
is not wor&longs;e than other men of his rank, and while he is not
wanting in re&longs;pect to me, I &longs;hall not trouble my&longs;elf about
his amu&longs;ements; to be &longs;ure, it is rather mortifying to have
a little in&longs;ignificant hu&longs;&longs;y preferred in one's own hou&longs;e.”
“That is what I &longs;ay, Madam.”
“You have no right to &longs;ay or think about it; if I am
&longs;atisfied with my Lord's conduct, I de&longs;ire I may hear
none of your &longs;lippant impertinence upon a &longs;ubject that
don't concern you.”
done, Ma'am, but I hope you'll di&longs;charge—”
“I certainly &longs;hall di&longs;charge every &longs;ervant of mine, who&longs;e
conduct di&longs;plea&longs;es me, therefore, Lappett, read that impudent
&longs;crawl, and then let me know what wages are due
to you.”
Lappett took the letter, and trembled as &longs;he took it,
for &longs;he knew it to be one which &longs;he had written to her
&longs;i&longs;ter, and having intru&longs;ted it to the hou&longs;e maid to put it
in the po&longs;t, the girl's curio&longs;ity led her to open it, but,
being &longs;urpri&longs;ed by the entrance of her lady whil&longs;t in the
act of reading it, &longs;he had, in her hurry to put it in her
pocket, dropped it, and while the officious Lappett was
contriving to introduce the Duke unperceived to her Lady,
this unfortunate letter di&longs;covered her criminal intercourse
with her Lord. But though Lady O&longs;&longs;iter had thus
bridled her pa&longs;&longs;ion while talking to her infamous confidante,
&longs;he no &longs;ooner &longs;aw the innocent Rebecca, than &longs;he
vented on her that torrent of abu&longs;e fear had prevented
her from pouring on the other.
Artful infamous &longs;trumpet, were her elegant expre&longs;&longs;ions,
to pretend to &longs;uch re&longs;inement of &longs;entiment, and yet be
guilty of &longs;uch glaring faults.
In vain Rebecca wept, and called on heaven to witne&longs;s
her innocence; even when kneeling, &longs;he reque&longs;ted not to
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be bereaved of her only refuge, an unblemi&longs;hed character.
The haughty Lady O&longs;&longs;iter &longs;purned her from her, and bid
her in&longs;tantly leave her hou&longs;e, and get her bread without,
for &longs;he was well convinced &longs;he did not de&longs;erve one.
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, prepared as he was to meet her anger,
was unable to bear the illiberal abu&longs;e with which &longs;he loaded
him; he therefore &longs;atisfied him&longs;elf with telling her, when
&longs;he practi&longs;ed the duties of a wife, he would begin to &longs;tudy
tho&longs;e of a hu&longs;band; till then, &longs;he had no right to complain,
and left her to compo&longs;e her &longs;pirits, as &longs;he could, while he
inquired of his valet what he knew concerning Rebecca.
He &longs;oon learnt, by inquiries being made among the servants,
that Rebecca was di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ed, and that &longs;he had taken
a place in the Lincoln&longs;hire &longs;tage, in order to return to her
mother. This was &longs;ufficient intelligence for his Lord&longs;hip,
and he began to plan &longs;chemes for getting her in his power.
When Rebecca came to take leave of the children, her
feelings were unde&longs;cribable. Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter hung about her
neck; even Charles and James begged her not to
they would be good boys and never vex her by behaving
ill again. She embraced them all tenderly, and with a
heart almo&longs;t broken, got into a hackney-coach, which
took her to the inn from whence the &longs;tage &longs;et out. She
a&longs;ked to be &longs;hown to an apartment, and ordered &longs;ome
trifle for her &longs;upper, then &longs;itting down by a little &longs;olitary
fire, began to reflect on her vexations, nor did &longs;he con&longs;ider
it as the lea&longs;t, that &longs;he was obliged to return to her mother
who had written to her but twice during her residence
in London, and even tho&longs;e letters were &longs;hort and
cold.
The five hundred pounds Mrs. Harley had given her,
&longs;he did not con&longs;ider as her own property, and be&longs;ides that,
&longs;he was po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of but ten guineas in the world; to be &longs;ure
&longs;he had a few valuable trinkets, pre&longs;ents from Lady Mary,
and a good &longs;tock of clothes; but what was that, when
&longs;he wanted &longs;upport it would &longs;oon be gone. In the mid&longs;t
of the&longs;e painful reflexions &longs;he drew the picture of her
benefactre&longs;s from her bo&longs;om, and contemplated it as her
chief, her almo&longs;t only comfort. But, examining it more
minutely than &longs;he had ever before done, &longs;he thought &longs;he
di&longs;covered &longs;omething like a &longs;pring on the edge of the setting,
and pre&longs;&longs;ing her finger on it, the back flew off and
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di&longs;covered to her the portrait of Sir George, fixed behind
that of his mother.
Spite of her&longs;elf &longs;he could not help gazing on it with
plea&longs;ure, and when &longs;he con&longs;idered the delicacy with which
he had managed to pre&longs;ent it to her, he ro&longs;e higher
than ever in her e&longs;teem.
“Ah,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “he certainly loves me, and is worthy
my e&longs;teem. Why are we not born for each other, for &longs;ure
I am, I could be content with Sir George, though in
the humble&longs;t &longs;tation: more—far more happy than in an
elevated &longs;phere; for in the humbler walks of life the felicity
we experience mu&longs;t proceed from a mutual de&longs;ire to
plea&longs;e, but in an exalted &longs;tation we live not for our&longs;elves
but others, at lea&longs;t if we have not fortitude to &longs;corn and
de&longs;pi&longs;e the &longs;neers of the fa&longs;hionable world.”
Rebecca could not help con&longs;idering the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of this
portrait, at this period, as an invaluable trea&longs;ure, and in
her own brea&longs;t &longs;olemnly vowed never to part from it. She
indulged her&longs;elf in gazing on it while &longs;he &longs;at up, and
&longs;he retired to bed, laid it on her pillow, and fell
into a compo&longs;ed &longs;lumber, which la&longs;ted till called at four
o'clock to join the pa&longs;&longs;engers in the coach. Refre&longs;hed
and comforted by the re&longs;t &longs;he had taken, Rebecca aro&longs;e
with alacrity to pur&longs;ue her journey, and nothing material
occurred till they had proceeded upwards of fifty miles
from town, when the coach was overtaken by a po&longs;t-chai&longs;e
and four, in which was a man, who &longs;topped the coachman
and a&longs;ked if there was not a young per&longs;on within &longs;ide
of the name of Littleton. “Yes,” cried Rebecca, innocently
looking out of the window, “my name is Littleton.”
“Ah, Ma'am,” cried the man, “I am commanded to
entreat you to return. Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter was la&longs;t night taken
extremely ill, and cries continually for you; my Lady
therefore begs you will forget what is pa&longs;t, and come and
take your u&longs;ual &longs;tation in the family. She is convinced of
your innocence, but if di&longs;agreeable to your&longs;elf, &longs;he will
only de&longs;ire you to remain till Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter is better.”
Rebecca's heart, formed for the warme&longs;t affection, beat
high when &longs;he heard of her little favourite's illne&longs;s. The
ill treatment &longs;he had experienced from Lady O&longs;&longs;iter was
in&longs;tantly forgot, and &longs;he thought only of returning as
quick as po&longs;&longs;ible to attend the dear little girl. She &longs;prang
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ha&longs;tily from the coach, and only taking with her a &longs;mall
portmanteau, containing a nece&longs;&longs;ary change of linen, got
into the chai&longs;e, and though drawn as quick as four hor&longs;es
could carry her, &longs;he thought every moment an hour, &longs;o
anxious was &longs;he to arrive in Bedford-Square.
CHAP. XIX. SEDUCTION.
It was very late when Rebecca entered London, and
&longs;he was not enough acquainted with the &longs;treets to know
whether &longs;he was going right or wrong; therefore, when
the chai&longs;e &longs;topped in a large &longs;quare, &longs;he jumped eagerly
out and ran into the hou&longs;e, without once con&longs;idering
whether &longs;he knew the place; but when &longs;he had got in the
hall and the door was &longs;hut, ju&longs;t as &longs;he was going to run
up &longs;tairs, the &longs;tairca&longs;e, which was different to the one &longs;he
had been u&longs;ed to, &longs;truck her, and turning ha&longs;tily round to
demand why &longs;he was brought to a &longs;trange place, &longs;he
the parlour door open, and in an in&longs;tant Lord O&longs;&longs;iter was
at her feet.
“Good God!” &longs;aid &longs;he, “where am I? why am I
thus betrayed?”
“You are not betrayed my adorable Mi&longs;s Littleton,”
&longs;aid he; “let me entreat you to be calm. Grieved to the
&longs;oul that Lady O&longs;&longs;iter &longs;hould have treated you &longs;o unworthily,
I made u&longs;e of an innocent &longs;tratagem to bring you
back, that I might obtain your pardon, and convince you
that I am ready to expiate, with my life, the offence &longs;he
has committed again&longs;t you.”
“If that is all,” cried Rebecca, &longs;carcely able to re&longs;pire,
through terror, a&longs;&longs;ure your&longs;elf I have forgiven you, my
Lord, and will pardon the deceit you have been guilty
of, if you will &longs;uffer me in&longs;tantly to quit this hou&longs;e, where
every moment I remain fills me with angui&longs;h and terror.”
“Why do you wi&longs;h to quit this hou&longs;e, my dear angel,”
&longs;aid he, forcibly leading her into the parlour; “it is your
own, every thing in it is your's; all the &longs;ervants are ready
to obey your commands.” Then ringing the bell, he ordered
all the &longs;ervants to appear, and bid them con&longs;ider
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Rebecca as their mi&longs;tre&longs;s, and obey her, as they valued
his future favour.
“Ah, my friends,” &longs;aid Rebeca, “do not attend to
what he &longs;ays; I have no right to command you, I am only
a &longs;ervant, like your&longs;elves, and &longs;uch I wi&longs;h to remain; only
continue to me, ju&longs;t heaven!” cried &longs;he, fervently rai&longs;ing
her eyes and hands, “my innocence un&longs;ullied, and my
integrity of mind un&longs;haken.”
“Be compo&longs;ed my deare&longs;t love,” &longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip,
di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ing the &longs;ervants, “no harm &longs;hall happen to you while
under my protection.”
“Oh!” cried &longs;he, in an agony, “I &longs;ee, unle&longs;s &longs;ome protecting
angel hovers over me, I am threatened with the
wor&longs;t of dangers. Let me go, Sir! by what authority
do you detain me here.”
“Whither would you go, my dear creature at this late
hour; if you quit this hou&longs;e no reputable door will open to
receive you, and I am &longs;ure, my &longs;weet Rebecca would
not enter a hou&longs;e of infamy.”
“Alas! alas! my Lord, I fear I have done that already,
though heaven knows how innocently.
“My lovely girl, do but compo&longs;e your agitated &longs;pirits,
and every thing will appear to you in a different light; let
me &longs;end your own woman to you, &longs;he &longs;hall wait on you to
your own apartment, where I beg you will take &longs;ome refreshment,
and endeavour to repo&longs;e your&longs;elf; I &longs;wear to
you, Rebecca, I will not enter your chamber till you give
me leave.”
“Merciful heaven!” cried Rebecca, “what will become
of me?”
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter retired, and an elderly woman made her
appearance with candles.
Rebecca for a few moments &longs;tood irre&longs;olute; at length
&longs;he determined to go up &longs;tairs with the woman, and by a
pretended calmne&longs;s, endeavoured to &longs;ound her principles,
and whether &longs;he was entirely devoted to the intere&longs;t of her
Lord. When &longs;he was in the apartment which the woman
called her own, &longs;he &longs;at down on a &longs;ofa, and calmly inquired
who &longs;lept in the adjoining apartment.
“I do, Madam,” was the an&longs;wer.
“Have you been long in this hou&longs;e?”
“I was only hired ye&longs;terday, Madam; and my Lord's
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gentleman informed me the hou&longs;e was taken for a young
lady, a relation of his ma&longs;ter's, who was expected from
the country.”
“And when do you expect &longs;he will arrive?” &longs;aid Rebecca,
with a&longs;&longs;umed indifference.
“Madam,” cried the woman, &longs;taring, “are you not
the lady?”
“No, indeed I am no relation of his Lord&longs;hip's; I
lived in his family, as a &longs;ervant to dre&longs;s, undre&longs;s, and
teach Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter to read.”
“But you are ju&longs;t come from the country now, Madam?”
“I was on my journey into the country, when I was
fetched back again. I under&longs;tood Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter was ill.”
“My Lord undoubtedly has a great regard for you,
and means to give you in this hou&longs;e a brilliant establishment.
You can &longs;urely have no objection to exchange servitude
for affluence.”
“It is a de&longs;irable change, certainly, if made on honourable
terms.”
“Liberality, my dear Madam, is &longs;ometimes an equivalent
for honour.”
“Are the&longs;e your real &longs;entiments?” &longs;aid Rebecca, with
a &longs;crutinizing look.
“They are the &longs;entiments of one half of the world—”
“But had you a child, would you talk to her in this
&longs;train; would you wi&longs;h her to barter all &longs;he ought to hold
dear in life, for the paltry con&longs;ideration of &longs;plendour?”
She looked, as &longs;he &longs;poke, earne&longs;tly in the woman's face:
it was an entreating, &longs;upplicating look, and the tears
gu&longs;hed from her eyes.
“I had a daughter once,” replied the attendant, (whom
we &longs;hall di&longs;tingui&longs;h by the name of Harris:) “&longs;he was
lovely as you are—&longs;he was once as innocent; but innocence
could not &longs;hield her from the calumny of the world,
and ill treatment depraved a heart formed for the love and
practice of virtue.” She pau&longs;ed, her eyes filled, and Rebecca
began to hope &longs;he &longs;hould find a friend that would
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t her in e&longs;caping the artful &longs;nare &longs;pread by Lord
O&longs;&longs;iter, to entrap her innocence.
Mrs. Harris, finding her remain &longs;ilent, left the room,
and in about ten minutes returned with a boiled chicken,
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which &longs;he entreated Rebecca to take part of before &longs;he
retired to re&longs;t.
“I am totally unable to take any re&longs;t,” &longs;aid Rebecca;
“but where is my Lord?”
“Gone home, and left his valet, in conjunction with
my&longs;elf, to wait your commands.”
“Or rather to be my jailers,” &longs;aid Rebecca;” “but
come, Mrs. Harris, (for &longs;he had inquired her name) come
&longs;it down, and if you will partake my &longs;upper, I will endeavour
to eat &longs;ome. You were &longs;peaking of your daughter,
I &longs;hould like to hear &longs;omething more concerning her.”
“Ah, Madam, her &longs;tory is but &longs;hort, but it will melt
your heart; indeed I do not know that I &longs;hould tell it
you at this time, but &longs;omething whi&longs;pers me, it will be
right to give you &longs;ome information concerning the villainy
of men. Perhaps you have a mother, Mi&longs;s.”
“I have,” replied Rebecca, her thoughts in&longs;tantly reverting
to her dear native village.
“Oh, may &longs;he never experience the angui&longs;h of heart I
have felt, in &longs;eeing her darling lo&longs;t to every &longs;en&longs;e of &longs;hame
in this world, and to every hope of peace in the next.
“My hu&longs;band was a reputable trade&longs;man; we po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
not the luxuries of life, but we enjoyed its comforts, and
were content. We had but one child; &longs;he was the joy
of our hearts, the prop on which we re&longs;ted for happine&longs;s.
My hu&longs;band had a &longs;i&longs;ter who had lived many years a
hou&longs;ekeeper with a nobleman: this &longs;i&longs;ter was godmother
to my girl, who was chri&longs;tened Jane, in compliment to
her. When Jenny was thirteen, her aunt declared &longs;he would
give her a couple of years at a re&longs;pectable boarding &longs;chool,
and then think about &longs;etting her in &longs;ome way of getting
her bread.
“I had forgot to tell you, Mi&longs;s, that my hu&longs;band and
&longs;elf lived upwards of twenty miles from London, and it
was with great difficulty we brought our&longs;elves to part with
our darling; but confidering it would be for her intere&longs;t to
go with her aunt, we at length con&longs;ented, and were satisfied
with &longs;eeing her at holliday time, and exulted not a
little at the evident improvement di&longs;cernable in her per&longs;on
and manners, whenever &longs;he renewed her vi&longs;it. The two
years were pa&longs;t, and Jenny, taken from &longs;chool, was placed
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with an eminent milliner, in which bu&longs;ine&longs;s her aunt promised
to &longs;et her up when her apprentice&longs;hip expired.
“It happened one day, when &longs;he had been to dine with
her aunt, that going up the front &longs;tairs, to fetch &longs;omething
from an upper apartment, &longs;he was met by a young gentleman,
who &longs;topped, made room for her, and bowed as
&longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed him. The next day, as &longs;he was at work in the
&longs;hop, the &longs;ame gentleman came in and a&longs;ked to look at
&longs;ome gloves; &longs;he aro&longs;e to &longs;erve him. “Ble&longs;s me, Mi&longs;s,”
&longs;aid he, “did I not &longs;ee you ye&longs;terday at Lord Melvin's?”
She an&longs;wered in the affirmative.
“I was there,” &longs;aid he, carele&longs;sly, “to receive her
Lady&longs;hip's order concerning the alteration of &longs;ome furniture.
I have the honour to do the mo&longs;t of the upholstery
bu&longs;ine&longs;s for them.”
“They then fell into chat. He wondered he had never
&longs;een her before, as he was &longs;o well acquainted with her aunt,
and begged leave &longs;ometimes to call and inquire after her
health. From this an intimacy took place, and Mr. Smith
made propo&longs;als of marriage, which were approved of by
the aunt: he even mentioned buying her indentures of her
mi&longs;tre&longs;s, that the union might be expedited. But in the
mid&longs;t of this Jenny could not help remarking, that Mr.
Smith never a&longs;ked her to his hou&longs;e; but her aunt &longs;aid it
was his tenderne&longs;s for her reputation that prevented him.
And he began to hint that he had made &longs;everal lucky hits
in the lottery, and &longs;hould leave off bu&longs;ine&longs;s, or at lea&longs;t
throw it into &longs;uch a line, that a few hours attendance every
day would be &longs;ufficient, and the re&longs;t might be performed
by per&longs;ons whom he would employ for that purpo&longs;e.
Things were in this &longs;tate when we were wrote to, and the
match, as repre&longs;ented by her aunt, being every way beyond
our expectations, we freely gave our con&longs;ent; nay, &longs;o delighted
were we with the hope of her being &longs;o well &longs;ettled,
that we made our neighbours partakers of our joys, and
our daughter's good fortune was univer&longs;ally talked of.
One evening, as we were &longs;itting in our little parlour, talking
of our future pro&longs;pects, among which was the hope of
&longs;eeing our dear girl and her hu&longs;band, immediately after
her marriage, we were &longs;tartled by a loud rap at the door,
and Mr. Harris having opened it, our poor Jenny ru&longs;hed
in, pale, breathle&longs;s, and to all appearance &longs;inking with
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fatigue. My love, you are welcome, &longs;aid I, catching her
in my arms; this is kind indeed to make us &longs;o early a vi&longs;it —but where is your hu&longs;band?”
“Hu&longs;band!” &longs;aid &longs;he, wildly; “I have no hu&longs;band.
Who told you I was married?”
“Your aunt wrote us word, my dear, you were to
have been married four days &longs;ince.”
“She laid her hand upon her forehead, as though endeavouring
to recollect &longs;omething.” “I believe it was &longs;o,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “but that aunt of mine is a &longs;ad woman, for
though I thought I was married, it was all a fal&longs;ehood.
And do you know, my dear mother, I am a poor undone
creature; but do not &longs;purn me from you—indeed I am
not wilfully guilty.”
“Here &longs;he pau&longs;ed, and, &longs;inking on her knees before us,
her emotions became &longs;o violent, that &longs;he was unable to
proceed, and we conveyed her to bed, in a &longs;tate little
&longs;hort of ab&longs;olute di&longs;traction. For &longs;everal days &longs;he was unable
to give us any account of what had befallen her. She
was feveri&longs;h, &longs;ometimes delirous, and when any lucid intervals
appeared, too weak and languid to be capable of
&longs;peaking more than two or three words at a time. When
&longs;he began to recover, &longs;he gave us an account that almo&longs;t
broke our hearts; indeed her father never held up his head
again, but drooped and pined till a con&longs;umption put a
period to his exi&longs;tence.”
CHAP. XX. DELIVERANCE.
“She told us, that at the time appointed her mi&longs;tre&longs;s
gave up her indentures to Mr. Smith, and &longs;he accompanied
her aunt and lover to his hou&longs;e, which was situated
in a newly built &longs;treet: was &longs;mall, but commodious,
and elegantly furni&longs;hed; which &longs;he attributed to his having
been in that way of bu&longs;ine&longs;s. Here, it &longs;eems, they
were, as &longs;he thought, married; Mr. Smith &longs;aying, he had
an objection to public weddings, and did not mind a little
extra expence to have things conducted with delicacy and
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privacy. Two days after her marriage, her hu&longs;band &longs;aid
he &longs;hould be obliged to leave her for the night, having a
little bu&longs;ine&longs;s to tran&longs;act a few miles out of town, but he
would be with her again by dinner the next day. After
he was gone, feeling her&longs;elf rather &longs;olitary, &longs;he put on
her hat and cloak and went to her mi&longs;tre&longs;s's, where &longs;he
found &longs;everal of her old companions preparing to go
to the play. This being a diver&longs;ion &longs;he was fond of, but
little per&longs;ua&longs;ion was nece&longs;&longs;ary to get her to join the party;
accordingly, attended by a genteel young man, they proceeded
to Covent-Garden, and got a very excellent &longs;eat
in the two &longs;hilling gallery. The fir&longs;t act of the play
was nearly fini&longs;hed, when a little bu&longs;tle in the &longs;tage-box
occa&longs;ioning Jenny to look that way, &longs;he &longs;aw her hu&longs;band
enter, leading a very plain woman, &longs;uperbly dre&longs;&longs;ed, and
take his &longs;eat be&longs;ide her on the front row.
“Look, Lucy,” &longs;aid &longs;he, to one of her companions,
“would you not almo&longs;t &longs;wear that was Mr. Smith.”
“Why, it is Mr. Smith,” returned the girl, innocently,
“I am &longs;ure it is him.”
“If,” &longs;aid the young man who was with them, “you
mean the gentleman in the &longs;tage box, with that ordinary
woman, you are mi&longs;taken in the name; that is Mr. Ponsonville,
elde&longs;t &longs;on to the earl of Melvin.”
“But I am &longs;ure you are mi&longs;taken,” cried Lucy, with
vivacity. “You will give a lady leave to know her own
hu&longs;band, I hope, and Mrs. Smith here claims that gentleman
as her property.”
“I am &longs;orry for it,” replied the young man, “for I
am convinced that is Mr. Pon&longs;onville, and that Lady beside
him is his wife; my father has made his clothes ever
&longs;ince he was a boy.”
“Jenny, who had &longs;at in &longs;ilent agitation during this little
dialogue, now ventured to a&longs;k if he meant the &longs;on of
Lord Melvin, of Melvin Court.”
“The &longs;ame,” he replied.
“A confu&longs;ed idea now ru&longs;hed into her mind, that &longs;he
had been vilely betrayed. She was &longs;en&longs;ible that the per&longs;on
&longs;he &longs;aw was the man &longs;he called her hu&longs;band; and if he was
in reality Mr. Pon&longs;onville, and the hu&longs;band of another
&longs;he was utterly ruined. The&longs;e reflexions prevented her
having any enjoyment of the play, and at the end of it &longs;he
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reque&longs;ted the young man to &longs;ee her into a hackney-coach,
as &longs;he found her&longs;elf not inclined to &longs;ee the entertainment.
She drove immediately to her aunt's, but the coachman
was not able to draw up to the door, on account of &longs;everal
carriages. She got out at the corner of the &longs;quare, and
proceeded on foot to the hou&longs;e, where &longs;he arrived ju&longs;t as
an elegant chariot drew up. Curio&longs;ity led her to go near,
in order to &longs;ee the gue&longs;ts alight. The chariot door opened,
and Mr. Pon&longs;onville alighted, handing out the &longs;ame lady
&longs;he had &longs;een at the play. This was proof &longs;ufficient; &longs;he
was too near then to be deceived—Pon&longs;onville and Smith
were the &longs;ame. She &longs;taggered a few &longs;teps forward, faintly
articulated his name, and &longs;unk lifele&longs;s on the pavement.
“Mrs. Pon&longs;onville, though plain in her per&longs;on, possessed
a humane heart: &longs;he &longs;aw her fall, and ordered the servants
to rai&longs;e her and carry her in, and giving orders for
her to be taken care of, left her. Whatever Pon&longs;onville's
feelings were, he di&longs;gui&longs;ed them &longs;o well, his lady did not
in the lea&longs;t &longs;u&longs;pect his intere&longs;t in the fainting Jane. And,
having informed Lady Melvin of what had happened, &longs;he
reque&longs;ted that the orders &longs;he had given might be enforced
by her Lady&longs;hip; and Harris was ordered to take particular
care of the young woman. The &longs;ervant &longs;ummoned
to receive the&longs;e commands informed her Lady&longs;hip that it
was Mi&longs;s Harris, who, they imagined, was coming to &longs;ee
her aunt, who had fainted, and that &longs;he was now recovering
and in the hou&longs;ekeeper's room; the Ladies therefore
imagining &longs;he was in good hands, made no farther inquiry.
“When Jenny recovered &longs;he began lamenting her hard
fate, and accu&longs;ing her aunt of deceiving her; but that
kind relation would not let her proceed.”
“What would the fool be at,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “keep your
own &longs;ecret, and nobody that you need care for will be the
wi&longs;er; be&longs;ides I have had your intere&longs;t at heart and your
fortune is made. Here (continued &longs;he, going to a beaureau)
here is a &longs;ettlement of five hundred a year as long
as you live.”
“Jenny caught the parchment from her, and tore it in
pieces: “Thus peri&longs;h, (&longs;aid &longs;he) every &longs;ign of my dishonour—
what are riches without innocence.”—“As you
have lo&longs;t the one, you might as well have kept the other,”
&longs;aid her aunt.
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“Jenny left the hou&longs;e without deigning a reply. The
next morning early Pon&longs;onville was with her. Hard was
the &longs;truggle between love and honour; for &longs;he really
loved her &longs;educer with the mo&longs;t enthu&longs;ia&longs;tic pa&longs;&longs;ion. His
&longs;ighs, his tears were infectious; &longs;he reque&longs;ted till the next
day to con&longs;ider, but &longs;he was well convinced to deliberate
was to be lo&longs;t, and be had no &longs;ooner left her, than &longs;he
ordered a chai&longs;e, and flew for protection to the arms of
her parents.
“But we &longs;oon di&longs;covered that the poor girl's misfortune
would be made public. We were pitied by &longs;ome,
laughed at and ridiculed by others, and the finger of
&longs;corn was pointed at my unfortunate child whenever &longs;he
ventured abroad. We &longs;old all our little po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ions, and
repaired to London, where we thought to hide our &longs;hame
in ob&longs;curity. Here my poor hu&longs;band paid the debt of
nature, and Jenny became the mother of a fine boy.
As &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed for a widow, and was in the full bloom
of beauty, it is not to be wondered that &longs;he &longs;hould be
addre&longs;&longs;ed on the &longs;core of marriage by a young man who
kept a per&longs;umery and toy-&longs;hop in the neighbourhood.
Jenny's heart was &longs;till too full of the idea of Pon&longs;onville
to &longs;uffer any other attachment to grow on it; but poverty
began to &longs;tare us in the face: &longs;he &longs;aw on one &longs;ide, a
mother, a child pining with want, no protector, no friend
to comfort and relieve them; on the other, a home, a
protector, and a place of refuge for tho&longs;e objects &longs;o dear
to her heart. She acceded to his propo&longs;al and was married.
Three years pa&longs;&longs;ed on in tranquillity at lea&longs;t, and
my daughter was the mother of another boy and a girl,
but I &longs;aw &longs;he was not de&longs;tined to be happy: her hu&longs;band
was frequently moro&longs;e and peevi&longs;h, and &longs;pent much of
his time at clubs and public hou&longs;es. But I knew they
had a good bu&longs;ine&longs;s, and therefore did not dread her
experiencing the evils of poverty. One day, as I was in
the &longs;hop, I &longs;aw a chariot draw up, and immediately called
Jenny to attend. She came ju&longs;t as the gentleman
de&longs;cended and entered the &longs;hop. “Good heaven!” exclaimed
he. Jenny turned pale and leaned again&longs;t the
counter. The gentleman recollected him&longs;elf—“Is not
your name Harris?” &longs;aid he, advancing.
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“No,” &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;aintly, “it once was, but I am
married.”
“Cur&longs;ed fate!” cried he, vehemently. “I am at
liberty, and have &longs;ought you with unremitting diligence,
to do you the ju&longs;tice your virtue merits.”—At that instant
her elde&longs;t boy ran into the &longs;hop. Mother, &longs;aid
he, taking her hand.
“And who&longs;e is this cherub?” &longs;aid he, taking the boy
on his knee, for he had &longs;eated him&longs;elf.
“Mine,” replied Jenny.—“And what is your name,
my &longs;weet fellow?” to the child.
“Pon&longs;onville Smith,” &longs;aid the boy.
“Pon&longs;onville,” cried he, vi&longs;ibly agitated. “Ponsonville;—
and how old are you?”
“Four years la&longs;t Chri&longs;tmas.”
“Jenny,” cried he, taking hold of her hand. “Jenny,
my love, how like a villain I have behaved to this boy
and you.”
“He drew her towards him with one hand, while
he embraced the child with the other. She &longs;unk on a
&longs;eat be&longs;ide him, her head &longs;ell on his &longs;houlder, and they
both wept.—What a moment was this for the hu&longs;band
to enter,—he did enter. Jenny &longs;tarted, a deep blu&longs;t
was &longs;ucceeded by a deadly palene&longs;s, and it was with difficulty
we got her into the parlour.
“Pon&longs;onville, now Lord Melvin, made &longs;ome trifling
purcha&longs;e, and went away. I &longs;aw the &longs;torm that lowered
on her hu&longs;band's brow; it bur&longs;t forth in cruel invective,
and, having traced Lord Melvin, and from &longs;ome
officious per&longs;on learnt the whole &longs;tory, he was not content
with reproach only, but added even blows, and at length
proceeded to that pitch of brutality as to turn my child
and her unoffending offspring into the &longs;treet. Lord
Melvin called to inquire for his boy,—he heard the tidings,
and never re&longs;ted till he di&longs;covered our place of
retreat. Mi&longs;erable indeed was the apartment where he
found his Jenny. He offered her independence for herself,
her mother, and children. I blu&longs;h to add the remainder,
but let no one boa&longs;t their virtue till the cold hand
of poverty has tried its &longs;trength to the utmo&longs;t. Jenny
accepted his propo&longs;als, and for &longs;even years, affluence
was her portion—but alas, not content; her heart bled,
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her angui&longs;h was unde&longs;cribable, but &longs;he wore the &longs;mile of
conent on her face, and the misjudging world thought
her happy. Alas! (&longs;he would &longs;ay) alas! my children,
what does your mother &longs;acrifice for you. But my Lord
died &longs;uddenly, and died inte&longs;tate: there was &longs;ome flaw
found in the &longs;ettlement made on Jenny, by his heir, and
&longs;he was again reduced to poverty. When the human
mind has gone a few &longs;teps in vice, how ea&longs;y does it proceed:
my Jenny had a&longs;&longs;ociated with women who&longs;e situation
were like her own; by degrees her mind lo&longs;t that
&longs;trong &longs;en&longs;e of rectitude which nature had implanted
there, and &longs;he yielded, without compunction, to the
&longs;olicitations of another lover. I will proceed no farther;
&longs;he is now gone, and in her la&longs;t hours regretted the lo&longs;s
of that purity of heart which alone could have enabled
her to meet that awful moment with compo&longs;ure.”
The tears that &longs;ell from Mrs. Harris's eyes encouraged
Rebecca. She &longs;lid from her &longs;eat on her knees before
her. “And can you, my dear Mrs. Harris,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
in a mo&longs;t per&longs;ua&longs;ive tone of voice, “Can you, who have
felt &longs;o much for a child, behold a poor forlorn creature,
who, unle&longs;s you help her, mu&longs;t be inevitably lo&longs;t—plunged
into that aby&longs;s of guilt and mi&longs;ery which mu&longs;t &longs;ink
her beneath the regard of every virtuous per&longs;on. Oh! rather
&longs;tretch forth thy hand and &longs;ave her. I am innocent
now, be thou my guardian angel, and deliver me from
this dreadful place. I can work, Mrs. Harris,—I am not
a&longs;hamed to work, even in the meane&longs;t capacity—I will be
a&longs;hamed of nothing but di&longs;honour.”
Mrs. Harris rai&longs;ed her, and &longs;poke to her words of comfort.
They &longs;at together till the clock &longs;truck four, and
then, taking off their &longs;hoes and putting out the light,
they &longs;tole &longs;oftly down &longs;tairs and out at the &longs;treet door.
Mrs. Harris knew where &longs;he &longs;hould find a &longs;tand of nightcoaches,
and proceeding there without mole&longs;tation, they
got into one, and drove to a decent looking hou&longs;e in the
Borough, the mi&longs;tre&longs;s of which readily admitted them,
and Rebecca having offered up her thank&longs;giving to the
protector of innocence, retired to a homely but clean bed,
and enjoyed &longs;everal hours of uninterrupted repo&longs;e.
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CHAPTER XXI. A NEW PLACE.
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When Rebecca awoke &longs;he found her&longs;elf greatly
refre&longs;hed, and aro&longs;e with a heart deeply impressed
with gratitude to Mrs. Harris, who had thus
unexpectedly delivered her from the wor&longs;t of all evils.
She went down &longs;tairs, and as &longs;he was taking her breakfast
began to talk of what &longs;he mu&longs;t do in future. I had
&longs;ome intention of returning to my mother, (&longs;aid &longs;he)
but I think now I had rather endeavour to get a place.
I have but a tri&longs;le in my pur&longs;e, but by writing to Lincolnshire
I can have my trunks returned, and I have
&longs;ome money in them, and I will beg your acceptance
of part of it for the eminent &longs;ervice you have
rendered me; in the meantime I &longs;hall be much obliged
to you if you could recommend me to a place, if you
heard of any thing which you thought would &longs;uit me.”
Mrs. Harris and her friend gave our heroine a cordial
invitation to remain with them till &longs;he could hear
from her mother, and promi&longs;ed to inquire for a place
which might &longs;uit her abilities, as &longs;he &longs;eemed to wi&longs;h to
wait on a very young lady, or be companion to an elderly
one, as &longs;he was certain her con&longs;titution would not
&longs;uffer her to engage with a woman of fa&longs;hion, who kept
a great deal of company and late hours, of which &longs;he
had experienced a &longs;ufficient &longs;pecimen in Lady O&longs;&longs;iter.
Rebecca addre&longs;&longs;ed a letter to her mother, briefly informing
her &longs;he had left her Lady and was in que&longs;t of
another place. That &longs;he had at fir&longs;t intended to return
home, and to that end had forwarded her trunk,
which &longs;he reque&longs;ted might be &longs;ent to town again by the
fir&longs;t conveyance. In about four days &longs;he received the
following an&longs;wer.
“DEAR CHILD,
“I am &longs;orry to find you have left Lady O&longs;&longs;iter as I
imagine you mu&longs;t have gro&longs;sly offended her Lady&longs;hip
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before &longs;he could have parted with you, as you was &longs;uch
a favorite with her mother; however, Rebecca, you
cho&longs;e to leave your father's hou&longs;e, and to conduct yourself
by the advice of &longs;trangers, you therefore know be&longs;t
child, what you are about; I &longs;hall not take upon me to
advi&longs;e, where my advice will be di&longs;regarded. As to
coming into the country, I think it would be putting
your&longs;elf to a needle&longs;s expence, as I know you would never
be happy to &longs;tay here: and &longs;en&longs;ible as I was of
that, you cannot wonder I have cho&longs;en a companion
and protector for my&longs;elf, and by uniting with the worthy
Mr. Serle, have upon his daughter and family a claim
to tho&longs;e tenderne&longs;&longs;es and attentions I in vain expected
from my own child. Mr. Serle went to the inn and inquired
for your trunk, but we can hear nothing of it;
you mu&longs;t therefore inquire for it at the inn from whence
the coach &longs;ets out in London.
“As you always were, or pretended to be a little
philo&longs;opher, I have no doubt but you will get very
well through the world; and you have youth and a
good con&longs;titution on your &longs;ide. I &longs;hall always be glad
to hear of your welfare; above all things, Rebecca, be
mode&longs;t and virtuous, and mind your religious duties,
as your poor father and I always taught you; and never
forget that you have a mother who loves you, and to
whom all your duty and re&longs;pect is due. Mr. Serle and
Mi&longs;s Peggy de&longs;ire me to give their be&longs;t wi&longs;hes to you,
though they have no acquaintance with you.
I am, dear child,
Your affectionate mother,
R. SERLE.”
Rebecca's &longs;en&longs;ations, on the receipt of this letter,
are better imagined than de&longs;cribed. Scarcely fix months
had elap&longs;ed &longs;ince the death of her father, and her mother
was married again—that mother, who, but a &longs;hort
time &longs;ince, had declared, that to be &longs;u&longs;pected capable of
admitting a &longs;econd partner, was an in&longs;ult that hurt her
feelings exce&longs;&longs;ively.
Rebecca now felt that &longs;he was in reality a poor solitary
being, without a home, and almo&longs;t without a friend;
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to be &longs;ure Mrs. Harris had been very kind to her, but
could &longs;he expect that kindne&longs;s to la&longs;t when &longs;he had lo&longs;t
the power of making her any recompen&longs;e. However
&longs;he determined to make &longs;ome inquiry concerning her
trunk, and to that end reque&longs;ted Mrs. Harris to accompany
her; but all the tidings &longs;he could learn was,
that the coachman had left it in the country, and that
he had &longs;ince heard it had been taken away by a per&longs;on
who &longs;aid he came from Mi&longs;s Littleton her&longs;elf, with orders
to pay all nece&longs;&longs;ary expences.
“Was there any thing of much value in the trunk?”
&longs;aid Mrs. Harris.
“Alas!” cried Rebecca, “there was the greate&longs;t
part of my clothes, and a five hundred pound bank
note, which I had to keep for a per&longs;on who is gone
abroad.”
“Pray, child, what kind of a man is this father-in-law
of your's?”
“Indeed I can hardly tell you; he never vi&longs;ited my
father during his life, nor did I ever &longs;ee him above twice,
except at church; he has been a widower &longs;ome years,
and has one daughter; he is an attorney by profe&longs;&longs;ion,
but I believe he had never much practice.”
“Perhaps your mother's annuity was the object that
invited this marriage.”
“It may be &longs;o, but I can hardly think it, for at the
utmo&longs;t it is not more than forty pounds year. My
mother has an agreeable per&longs;on, and lively manner; I
do not think it improbable but he may have married
her for love.”
“I do not think it improbable but he has got your
trunk.”
“Dear, Mrs. Harris, how can you &longs;ugge&longs;t &longs;uch a
thing; you quite &longs;hock me.”
“Shock you or not, I think that is really the ca&longs;e,
and I would advi&longs;e you to pur&longs;ue legal methods to discover
it.”
“No,” cried Rebecca, re&longs;olutely, “never; I cannot
bring my&longs;elf to &longs;u&longs;pect that my mother would unite
her&longs;elf to a man capable of &longs;uch an action, and if that
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were really the ca&longs;e, I hope I have too high a &longs;en&longs;e of
&longs;ilial re&longs;pect to attempt expo&longs;ing her to the malicious
cen&longs;ures of a world, who would not fail to involve her,
however innocent, in her hu&longs;band's guilt. My own interest
&longs;hall ever give way to her peace of mind, for &longs;he
was the cho&longs;en companion, the bo&longs;om friend of the be&longs;t
of fathers, and though &longs;he &longs;eems to have forgot that I am
her child, I can never forget &longs;he is my mother.”
“All this may be very clever, for what I know,” &longs;aid
Mrs. Harris, “but I am &longs;ure, in my opinion, it is very
ridiculous. You will find, my poor &longs;imple child, your
&longs;ix guineas will go but a little way towards buying you
clothes fit for a decent place; however, we mu&longs;t not
meet troubles half way, it will be time enough when you
have got a place, to think about preparing to go to it;
but I have an acquaintance lives in this &longs;treet, who perhaps
may have it in her power to help you to &longs;omething.”
They called on the per&longs;on mentioned, who was lady's
woman in an opulent merchant's family. Mrs. Harris
mentioned Rebecca's intentions, and learnt that there
was a country lady, then on a vi&longs;it to this family, who had
parted with her maid, and was in want of one to &longs;upply
her place. Rebecca thought &longs;he could venture to take
&longs;uch a &longs;ituation in a regular quiet family. She was introduced
to the Lady, who, &longs;truck with her lovely person
and mode&longs;t demeanour, conceived an in&longs;tant prepossession
in her favour, and engaged her, upon liberal terms,
to enter her &longs;ervice on that day week.
Rebecca &longs;elt extremely happy that &longs;he &longs;hould no longer
be a burden upon the kind Mrs. Harris, and eagerly
&longs;et about preparing as well as the narrow &longs;tate of her finances
would allow, to take po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of her new place.
Mrs. Barton (the name of Rebecca's mi&longs;tre&longs;s) was a
plea&longs;ing lively brunette, about twenty years old. She
had married, when very young, contrary to the advice
of her friends, a young man of &longs;mall fortune and rather
flightly character, but &longs;he had twenty thou&longs;and pounds
at her own di&longs;po&longs;al, and her motto was, “All for love.”
Barton was really attached to her in the fir&longs;t years of
their marriage, but his temper was too ver&longs;atile to belong
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con&longs;tant to any thing, he in time grew cool, and often
played her fal&longs;e, but &longs;he was of &longs;uch an even, cheerful,
un&longs;u&longs;pecting temper, &longs;o unaffectedly tender, &longs;o attentive
to his intere&longs;t, and &longs;tudious of his peace, that he found
it impo&longs;&longs;ible to treat her with unkindne&longs;s, &longs;o that there
was always an appearance of much cordiality between
them, for though &longs;he could not &longs;hut her eyes and ears
upon his infidelities, &longs;he wi&longs;ely concluded it was prudent
&longs;ometimes to be wilfully deaf and blind, and that if good
humour would not reclaim him, ill humour would certainly
make him wor&longs;e.
With this couple Rebecca went into Shrop&longs;hire, a few
weeks after &longs;he entered Mrs. Barton's &longs;ervice. Their
hou&longs;e was a venerable gothic building, &longs;ituated in the
mid&longs;t of a beautiful park, and had fallen to Mrs. Barton
on the death of her godfather, from whom al&longs;o &longs;he
inherited her independent fortune. Rebecca found herself
much at her ea&longs;e, Mrs. Barton was very kind to her,
and finding &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed an intelligent mind, often made
her the companion of her rambles about the grounds and
adjacent country. Mr. Barton troubled his lady but little
with his company, except at meals, and &longs;ometimes not
then: nay, he even went &longs;o far as to &longs;leep from home several
nights in the week; and this being a liberty he had
never before taken, without his wife being informed of
the cau&longs;e, &longs;he felt her&longs;elf really unca&longs;y, and, though
when he was pre&longs;ent &longs;he a&longs;&longs;umed her u&longs;ual cheerfulne&longs;s,
it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to conquer her feelings, &longs;o as not to
let her chagrin and mortification appear to Rebecca,
who &longs;incerely pitied, and by every affiduity in her power,
endeavoured to amu&longs;e and entertain her. Mrs. Barton
kept but little company; &longs;he was fond of reading,
drawing, mu&longs;ic, and fancy works; in the&longs;e &longs;he discovered
Rebecca's ta&longs;te and knowledge, and many was the
heavy hour &longs;he beguiled in joining the labours of her lady,
improving her judgment, and with the &longs;weete&longs;t diffidence
and humility correcting her errors.
In the mean time Lord O&longs;&longs;iter provoked beyond
mea&longs;ure, that a &longs;cheme he had imagined infallible,
&longs;hould have proved totally abortive, di&longs;patched his
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faithful valet off to Lincoln&longs;hire, in hopes to find the fair
fugitive there, and get her once more into his power;
but here he was again foiled; for though Rebecca had
wrote to her mother, that &longs;he had engaged with a Mrs.
Barton, yet &longs;he had not mentioned in what part of the
country the family u&longs;ually re&longs;ided, &longs;o that the faithful
amba&longs;&longs;ador returned to his di&longs;appointed Lord without
the lea&longs;t conciliatory intelligence.
CHAP. XXII. SCHOOL FOR WIVES.
The vi&longs;its of Barton from home became now too
long and too frequently repeated not to give his
wife &longs;erious cau&longs;e for unea&longs;ine&longs;s; &longs;he &longs;ecretly re&longs;olved
to di&longs;cover, if po&longs;&longs;ible, to whom he devoted &longs;o large a
portion of his time.
Now it &longs;o happened, that about &longs;even miles from
Belle Park, on the &longs;ide of a craggy hill, watered by an
impetuous &longs;tream, that ru&longs;hed from the upper part of
the declivity, &longs;tood an old mill, and by the &longs;ide of the
mill &longs;tood an old thatched cottage, within which lived
an old couple, who had a very young and a very lovely
grand daughter. Now, though this old man was the
owner of the mill and cottage, and ground many a bu&longs;hel
of corn for his poor neighbours, of which he never failed
to take his regular toll; yet it &longs;o happened that he
was but poor him&longs;elf. The cottage, we have &longs;aid, was
old, &longs;o that the chilling bla&longs;ts of winter, and the scorching
heats of &longs;ummer found ea&longs;y entrance through its
&longs;hattered frame; but Dolly, the blooming Dolly, was
the pride of their hearts, and often as they &longs;at smoaking
their evening's pipe, they would gaze on her
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sparkling black eyes, ruddy complexion, and delicate &longs;hape,
and cry, “Ah, &longs;urely that girl is born to be the comfort
of our old age; &longs;he is &longs;o hand&longs;ome, there is no doubt
but &longs;he will get a &longs;quire for a hu&longs;band, or, mayhap,
the Lord of the Manor. Ah, ble&longs;s the dear face of it,
I &longs;hall live to &longs;ee her a great lady I warrant, and then it
will &longs;end &longs;ome people to mend old grandad's cottage,
and repair the crazy old mill.” The&longs;e were the waking
dreams of doating age, for alas Dolly had reached her
&longs;eventeenth year and no &longs;quire had yet made his appearance,
to verify her grandmother's prophecy. However
about this time one of Mr. Barton's footmen, a
&longs;mart lad, about nineteen years old, &longs;aw this paragon of
ru&longs;tic beauty at a neighbouring fair, and, unfortunately
for his ma&longs;ter's hor&longs;es, from that day whenever he was
di&longs;patched to the neighbouring town or villages, on
me&longs;&longs;ages, errands, or what not, he always found the old
miller's cottage lay directly in the way between Belle
Park and the place to which he was di&longs;patched.
One evening Mr. Barton having mounted his hor&longs;e,
and called Thomas to attend him in his intended excursion,
being undetermined which way to go, a&longs;ked the
lad if he had di&longs;covered lately any new ride, for, he
&longs;aid, I have gone the old track &longs;o often I am weary of
it. Thomas, full of the charms of Dolly, and eager to
embrance the &longs;malle&longs;t opportunity of beholding them, or
at lea&longs;t the cottage that contained them, a&longs;ked his master
if he had ever rode by Gaffer Job&longs;on's mill.
'Tis not above &longs;even miles off, your honour, and is
the &longs;weete&longs;t and romantice&longs;t kind of a place, with trees
and rocks and a river: then the mill is &longs;o old, your honour,
that it looks, for all the world, like the places we
read about in &longs;tory books.
Barton &longs;miled, and being directed by Thomas as to
the road he was to take, cantered off, followed by the
happy lover, exulting in the thought of &longs;eeing his mistress,
though it were but for a moment. But, perhaps,
thought he, ma&longs;ter may look at the place, and then I
can &longs;lip in for a minute, and ju&longs;t &longs;peak to Dolly.
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Alas poor Thomas thou art as blind as many other
wi&longs;e politicians, or thou would&longs;t never have taken thy
ma&longs;ter to &longs;ee the cottage and the mill.
The &longs;un was beginning to withdraw it&longs;elf behind the
hill tops, when Gaffer having lighted his pipe and Gammor
&longs;et by her wheel, had &longs;eated them&longs;elves on the &longs;teps
of their cottage, to talk over old times, and dream, as
u&longs;ual, of Dolly's good fortune. Dolly had ju&longs;t tied on
a clean coloured apron, &longs;moothed back her luxuriant
che&longs;nut hair, and &longs;eated beneath a tree not far di&longs;tant
from the door, was earne&longs;tly contriving to di&longs;po&longs;e to the
be&longs;t advantage three yards of cherry-coloured ribbon
which Thomas had given her, round a chip hat, in
which &longs;he thought to out&longs;hine all her companions the
next Sunday at church. Lifting her eyes from this
very intere&longs;ting employment, who &longs;hould &longs;he &longs;ee but
the identical Mr. Thomas and a fine young gentleman
riding towards the mill.
Up &longs;he bounced. “See, &longs;ee, grandad,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
eagerly, “&longs;ee you fine gentleman and Mr. Thomas.”
She &longs;poke loud, the evening was &longs;erene; her voice
vibrated on the ear of Barton; he turned his head, the
old mill, the trees, and rocks were no longer intere&longs;ting
objects. “I will have a little chat with the old man,”
&longs;aid he, guiding his hor&longs;e that way, but his eyes were
fixed on the lovely form of Dolly. He chatted with
the old couple till it was nearly dark, and as he rode
homeward could think only on the charms of their
grand-daughter. The next evening he rode that way
again, unattended, talked &longs;omething about repairing
the mill, and ki&longs;&longs;ed Dolly at parting. Another and
another interview &longs;ucceeded. Thomas was con&longs;tantly
kept employed at home, and a few guineas, a new
gown, and two or three glittering gewgaws had the
power to bani&longs;h him as entirely from Dolly's memory
as though he had never held a place there. The &longs;quire,
as &longs;he called him, occupied all her thought, and, awell-a-day
for poor nature, the &longs;quire triumphed over all
the virtue Dolly ever po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed. The old folks too wilfully
&longs;hut their eyes, and in li&longs;tening to projected
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repairs, and thinking of future pro&longs;perity, forgot it was
to be purcha&longs;ed by the infamy of their grand-daughter.
But Barton was by no means a liberal lover; he
talked much but performed little, and though he &longs;lept
&longs;everal nights in a week at Gaffer Job&longs;on's, he was
content to &longs;leep on their homely mattra&longs;s, nor once
thought of providing another.
Poor Thomas, mortified to the &longs;oul, could not conceal
his vexation, nor did he make a &longs;ecret of the cau&longs;e
among his fellow &longs;ervants. It was whi&longs;pered from one
to another, till at length it reached Mrs. Barton; not
from Rebecca, for &longs;he would not have told &longs;uch a tale
to a di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed wife, to obtain the highe&longs;t con&longs;ideration;
&longs;he would have feared the effect it would have had on her
feelings, and agonized with the poor &longs;ufferer in idea a
thou&longs;and times. But Mrs. Barton was a woman of spirit;
&longs;he felt her hu&longs;band's neglect &longs;everely, but &longs;he would
more &longs;everely have felt the pity of her &longs;ervants: &longs;he took
great care therefore not to appear to need it.
“Do you know child,” &longs;aid &longs;he to Rebecca, one day
as &longs;he was a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ting her to dre&longs;s; “do you know, child,
that this truant hu&longs;band of mine is fallen in love with
&longs;ome chubby faced little chit in the neighbourhood, and
prefers the company of her and her ignorant relations to
my elegant &longs;ociety, and their hard bed and coar&longs;e &longs;heets
to his own made of down and covered with the fine&longs;t
holland: do you not think the man is turned fool?”
She &longs;aid this with &longs;uch a &longs;mile of good humour that
Rebecca looked ar her with amazement, and he&longs;itatingly
replied, “he is certainly blind to his own happine&longs;s,
Madam.”
“Oh, no; I dare &longs;ay the indulgence of the&longs;e whims
con&longs;titutes what he calls happine&longs;s, but I mu&longs;t confe&longs;s
he &longs;eems totally indifferent about mine, and as that is
the ca&longs;e, I &longs;hall take what &longs;teps I think proper to &longs;ecure
&longs;ome for my&longs;elf. Now I have a va&longs;t de&longs;ire to &longs;ee this
irre&longs;i&longs;table la&longs;s of the mill, and as I know he dines at
Mr. Thornhill's to day, this very afternoon I will pay
her a vi&longs;it and you &longs;hall accompany me.”
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Rebecca thought this an odd &longs;tep, but &longs;he had a very
high opinion of Mrs. Barton's &longs;en&longs;e and prudence, and
therefore prepared to attend her without intimating the
lea&longs;t di&longs;approbation of the &longs;cheme, which &longs;he certainly
would have ventured to do, had &longs;he not been &longs;atisfied
that her lady had &longs;ome very good rea&longs;ons for her conduct.
About four o'clock they &longs;tepped into the chariot,
and proceeded to the mill without any attendant. They
left the carriage within a quarter of a mile of the cottage,
and went thither on foot, pretended wearine&longs;s, and
a&longs;ked leave to re&longs;t and have a draught of water. “Would
you like a little wine in your water, my Lady,” &longs;aid the
old woman.
“I &longs;hould have hardly &longs;uppo&longs;ed,” replied Mrs. Barton,
“that your cottage afforded &longs;uch a luxury.”
“Why, in good truth, we ne'er had &longs;uch a thing before,
and now Gaffer and I don't much care for drinking
a'nt, we'd rather have a cup of yale; but the &longs;quire that
courts our Dolly &longs;ent &longs;ome that he may have a little now
and then when he comes.”
“Your daughter is going to be married then.”
“'Tis my grand-daughter, my Lady,” &longs;aid the old
woman, courte&longs;ying. At that moment the back door
opened and in bounced Dolly. She blu&longs;hed, courte&longs;yed
awkwardly, and would have &longs;poke but was at a lo&longs;s what
to &longs;ay. Prepared as Mrs. Barton was to &longs;ee &longs;omething
extremely lovely, the charms of this little ru&longs;tic &longs;urpa&longs;&longs;ed
her imagination. “What a lovely creature,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
&longs;oftly, to Rebecca; “how could Barton be &longs;o wantonly
cruel as to contaminate the &longs;oul which animates this
beauteous form.” The tears &longs;tarted in her eyes as &longs;he
&longs;poke, but bru&longs;hed them away unperceived. “And &longs;o
my dear you are going to be married, I under&longs;tand, and
to a &longs;quire. I have &longs;ome idea he is a friend of mine. I
believe he &longs;pends much of his time here, but I think
your accommodations are not very brilliant. You mu&longs;t
give me leave to &longs;end you &longs;ome better furniture, and to
give orders to have your hou&longs;e repaired; and &longs;hould
your lover inquire who it was ordered the&longs;e things, tell
him it was a lady who has a great regard for him, and
lives at the old fa&longs;hioned hou&longs;e in the park.
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Manifold were the courte&longs;ys and awkward acknowledgments
poured forth by the grand-mother and Dolly,
but Mrs. Barton imagined &longs;he &longs;aw in the countenance
of the latter mingled &longs;hame and regret. “If
we could &longs;ave this poor girl,” &longs;aid &longs;he to Rebecca,
when they were &longs;eated again in the carriage; “if we
could &longs;ave her and teach her the value of the gem &longs;he
has uncon&longs;ciou&longs;ly thrown away, we might then lead her
back to virtue, and, &longs;pite of her errors, &longs;he may yet
become a valuable member of &longs;ociety.”
The carriage drove to the neare&longs;t town, when Mrs.
Barton went to an uphol&longs;terer's and ordered whatever
&longs;he thought nece&longs;&longs;ary, to be taken immediately to the
cottage; &longs;he likewi&longs;e engaged a carpenter to &longs;end people
the next day, to begin the repairs, and on returning
home &longs;he di&longs;patched a large bundle of &longs;heets, table linen,
&c. by a poor labourer who knew nothing of the
reports current in the family. Rebecca ea&longs;ily &longs;aw her
Lady's de&longs;ign, and almo&longs;t trembled for the event, indeed
Mrs. Barton her&longs;elf could &longs;carcely have been le&longs;s
agitated. That night Barton returned late, and having
a large party to dine next day, it was impo&longs;&longs;ible for
him to vi&longs;it his fair Dulcinea till the en&longs;uing morning,
and then, ju&longs;t as he was going, a gentleman arrived
from town and detained him till after dinner.
“I &longs;hall not be at home to-night, Bet&longs;ey,” &longs;aid he,
as he mounted his hor&longs;e; “I have an engagement with
two or three jovial fellows, and &longs;hall not like to ride
home late.”
Mrs. Barton &longs;miled, I wi&longs;h you a plea&longs;ant evening,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “and as I am &longs;ure of your being out of the
way I will &longs;end for my gallant.”
“You threaten well Bet&longs;ey, but I have too good an
opinion of you to fear their execution.”
“Tea and &longs;upper was &longs;erved without Mrs. Barton
being any the better for them; &longs;he became violently
agitated; Rebecca was &longs;ummoned to attend her, but
alas Rebecca could not comfort her. The clock had
ju&longs;t &longs;truck eleven when the bell at the great gate was
rung with violence.
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“He is returned,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “and a few minutes
will now decide my fate. My good Rebecca leave me.”
Barton entered the room with the looks of a condemned
criminal. “Bet&longs;ey,” &longs;aid he, “where were
you the day before ye&longs;terday, and how did you employ
your time?”
“Not in a manner di&longs;agreeable to you, I hope,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, mildly; “I had heard how partial you were
to &longs;leeping at the mill cottage, and I took a ride to &longs;ee
if you were well accommodated; but I found the bed
intolerable, and the hou&longs;e in &longs;uch a mi&longs;erable &longs;late I
thought you ran great ri&longs;ques of getting cold, &longs;o, being
unwilling to lo&longs;e you, I thought it was my duty, as a
good wife, to provide you with better conveniences.”
“My dear Bet&longs;ey how can you talk thus calm,
when you know all my weakne&longs;s—when you know how
I have injured you?”
“Barton,” &longs;aid &longs;he, with a firm look and voice, “I
am not now to learn that I am no longer beloved; but
it was no rea&longs;on becau&longs;e you had grown weary of home,
you &longs;hould trifle away your life by &longs;leeping in a place
almo&longs;t entirely open to nightly dews, and un&longs;heltered
even by curtains to your bed. But mark me, my dear
Barton, that I love you, I tru&longs;t you have had innumerable
inconte&longs;table proofs; but if I am no longer beloved,
if my &longs;ociety and endearments can no longer give you
plea&longs;ure, let us part; why &longs;hould you deprive your&longs;elf of
the comforts and conveniences of life; let our fortune be
divided; leave me to &longs;olitude and quiet in this place, and
take your favourite to the Elms. But I charge you,
Barton delay not a day to make her a proper &longs;ettlement,
left you hereafter grow weary of her, and fall a victim to
poverty and infamy: is a beauteous flower, pity it is
&longs;he was ever tran&longs;planted into the garden of folly.”
“Bet&longs;ey,” &longs;aid he, dropping on his knees before her,
and taking both her hands, “Bet&longs;ey, you are an angel,
and I am totally unworthy your forgivene&longs;s: I &longs;ee my
doom, I &longs;ee my folly has bani&longs;hed all the tenderne&longs;s of
your heart, and you wi&longs;h to be &longs;eparated from a wretch
who has treated you &longs;o unworthily.”
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“You are mi&longs;taken, Barton, if you think I wi&longs;h to be
&longs;eparated from you, could I once more be the mi&longs;tre&longs;s
of your affections; to live with you, to love you, to promote
your happine&longs;s would be the plea&longs;ure of my life,
but I cannot have a divided heart; if another is preferred,
let me not, by con&longs;tantly witne&longs;&longs;ing your indifference
toward my&longs;elf, &longs;uffer pains too acute to be borne
without complaining.”
“Oh Bet&longs;ey! deare&longs;t girl, forgive me, and take my
whole, my undivided heart; do with it what you plea&longs;e,
it never &longs;hall again wander from you, its cho&longs;en mistress.”
Mrs. Barton could no longer combat the impul&longs;e of
her throbbing heart, &longs;he dropped her head on the forehead
of her repentant hu&longs;band, and tears of un&longs;eigned joy
ratified their reconciliation.
“But what mu&longs;t we do with poor Dolly,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
after a pau&longs;e of a few moments.
“I commit her to your care, my love,” replied Barton,
“&longs;en&longs;ible that you will do whatever is be&longs;t for her
future well doing,—for my part, I will never &longs;ee her
again.”
“Nay, Barton, keep your pa&longs;&longs;ions under the guidance
of rea&longs;on, and you may &longs;ee her without danger.”
CHAP. XXIV. THE VOYAGE.
Mrs. Barton let no time elap&longs;e in merely forming
plans for Dolly. She took an opportunity to
found Thomas's &longs;entiments concerning her, and found
the poor lad as deeply in love as ever; “And would you
be willing to marry her, Thomas, provided the mill was
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repaired and &longs;he had a few acres of ground well &longs;tocked?”
Thomas replied in the affirmative, and Dolly being
found no ways unwilling to comply, a few weeks made
them man and wife; Barton de&longs;iring his Lady to &longs;pare
no expence nece&longs;&longs;ary to make them quite comfortable,
and literally kept his promi&longs;e of never &longs;eeing Dolly
again.
But though his re&longs;olves, in regard to future constancy
were &longs;eriou&longs;ly made, his heart was compo&longs;ed of &longs;uch
inflammable matter, that he no &longs;ooner began to contemplate
the una&longs;&longs;uming charms of Rebecca, which, from
being much at home, he had now &longs;ufficient lei&longs;ure to do,
than he found him&longs;elf puzzled to keep his good resolutions;
and being unaccu&longs;tomed to combat his inclinations,
he found this fir&longs;t attempt at &longs;elf-conque&longs;t too
painful to be per&longs;evered in: and Mrs. Barton, with anguish
of heart, &longs;aw he was again relap&longs;ing into indifference
and incon&longs;tancy.
Rebecca too &longs;aw, with evident di&longs;plea&longs;ure, the many
opportunities he took of throwing him&longs;elf in her way.
It was &longs;ometimes impo&longs;&longs;ible to avoid li&longs;tening to him on
a &longs;ubject which filled her with di&longs;gu&longs;t and &longs;orrow. He
offered her &longs;everal valuable trinkets, which &longs;he re&longs;olutely
refu&longs;ed to accept; but at length his behaviour became
&longs;o unequivocal, that Rebecca determined to quit her
amiable mi&longs;tre&longs;s, however unwilling to relinqui&longs;h a situation
in which &longs;he had enjoyed &longs;o much tranquillity.
Mrs. Barton quickly di&longs;covered the motives of our
heroine's intention, and honoured her for them.
“You are a truly amiable girl, Rebecca,” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“and I will not part with you till I can recommend
you to &longs;ome per&longs;on who will be &longs;en&longs;ible of your value.”
The next morning Mrs. Barton informed her that,
during a vi&longs;it &longs;he had made the preceding afternoon, &longs;he
had heard of a &longs;ituation which &longs;he thought might prove
highly advantageous to her. “But perhaps,” continued
&longs;he, “you would not like to leave England.”
“All places are alike to me,” &longs;aid Rebecca; “I have
&longs;o very few friends who intere&longs;t them&longs;elves at all in my
welfare, that provided my mother gives her a&longs;&longs;ent, I can
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have no objection to quitting a place where every tie is
broken that once rendered it mo&longs;t dear to me.”
“Well then,” &longs;aid Mrs. Barton, “there is a young
lady who has been in England for her education; &longs;he is
now about &longs;ixteen years old, of an amiable temper, and
highly accompli&longs;hed. Her father, who re&longs;ides in America,
has &longs;ent for her home, and her governe&longs;s has been
inquiring for a prudent well educated young per&longs;on to
accompany her. The terms offered are fifty guineas,
and all expences paid, and &longs;hould you not approve residing
there, on your arrival, they will pay your pa&longs;&longs;age
back again.
“Colonel Abthorpe is a man of large fortune; he
has formerly &longs;erved in the army, but at the conclu&longs;ion
of the war re&longs;igned his commi&longs;&longs;ion, and retired to America,
his lady being a native of that place. Mi&longs;s Abthorpe
goes out in about fix weeks, and if you &longs;hould
like to accompany her, I have no doubt but you are the
kind of per&longs;on that will &longs;uit her.”
Rebecca was plea&longs;ed with the propo&longs;al; &longs;he waited
on the lady with whom Mi&longs;s Abthorpe had been educated,
and was highly approved of, both by her and
the young lady her&longs;elf. She then wrote to her mother,
and in a few po&longs;ts received a letter dictated by her mother,
but wrote by her &longs;i&longs;ter-in-law, and written in &longs;uch
cold &longs;lighting terms that &longs;he ea&longs;ily &longs;aw they would be
glad to have her &longs;o far from them, that there might be
no danger of her coming home, in ca&longs;e of &longs;ickne&longs;s or
other contingencies; &longs;he therefore took leave of the amiable
Mrs. Barton, who could not part from her without
tears, and who pre&longs;ented her with &longs;everal valuable memorials
of her friend&longs;hip.
The day after Rebecca entered Mi&longs;s Abthorpe's &longs;ervice
&longs;he &longs;et off for London, where &longs;he was to join Mr. Seward's
family, who were to embark on board the &longs;ame &longs;hip
with her, and under who&longs;e protection &longs;he was to proceed
to New-England. It was late in September when
they arrived in town, and a variety of incidents detained
them till the middle of October, &longs;o that they had
but an untoward pro&longs;pect before them, when &longs;o late in
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the &longs;ea&longs;on they embarked at Deal, on board a brig
bound for Bo&longs;ton. A fair wind pre&longs;ently took them
out of the channel, and they flattered them&longs;elves with
a pro&longs;perous voyage; but the&longs;e flattering appearances
were &longs;oon rever&longs;ed, for the wind &longs;uddenly changed,
ri&longs;ing almo&longs;t to a hurricane, &longs;o that it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to
pur&longs;ue their intended cour&longs;e or return to port, and they
continued to&longs;&longs;ing about in the Atlantic till the latter
end of December, and then had not half made their
pa&longs;&longs;age, though their provi&longs;ion was &longs;o exhau&longs;ted that
they were obliged to live on a very &longs;mall allowance of
bread; water and &longs;alt meat they had, and a few pea&longs;e,
but of the&longs;e they were extremely careful.
Poor Rebecca heartily wi&longs;hed her&longs;elf on &longs;hore again,
but &longs;en&longs;ible tho&longs;e wi&longs;hes were unavailing, &longs;he confined
them to her own bo&longs;om, and exerted her&longs;elf to &longs;upport
the &longs;pirits of Mi&longs;s Abthorpe, who, naturally delicate
and unaccu&longs;tomed to fatigue, was nearly exhau&longs;ted with
terror, con&longs;inement and hunger. In a few weeks they
were reduced almo&longs;t to extremities; they had not even
a candle to light the binnacle, which contains the compass,
and the whole of their allowance now amounted to
one bi&longs;cuit and half a pint of water per day each person.
Mr. Seward had on board the &longs;hip with him, besides
two fine boys, the one fourteen the other twelve
years old, a charming little girl &longs;carcely &longs;even. Mrs.
Seward had been dead &longs;ome years, and the child was
accompanied by her nur&longs;e. The chief angui&longs;h this faithful
&longs;ervant felt was in contemplating her little charge,
and thinking how &longs;he was to be pre&longs;erved; indeed, to
&longs;uch a height did her affection ri&longs;e, that &longs;he voluntarily
deprived her&longs;elf of part of the very &longs;mall portion of
bread allotted her, that &longs;he might lay it by again&longs;t a
time of more eminent nece&longs;&longs;ity for this darling of her
heart.
It was a clear cold day, the wind blowing &longs;trongly
again&longs;t them, when the ma&longs;ter of the ve&longs;&longs;el entered the
cabin with a &longs;mile. A &longs;mile at that particular time
was received by all as a good omen, for &longs;eldom had &longs;uch
a thing been &longs;een in their melancholy party.
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“There is a &longs;hip bearing down towards us,” &longs;aid he.
“I have made a &longs;ignal of di&longs;tre&longs;s, and no doubt we
&longs;hall be relieved.”
Hope, &longs;weet &longs;olace of the wretched, played round
the hearts of his auditors as he pronounced the&longs;e
words; and all who were able crawled upon the deck
to watch, with eager eyes, the near approaches of the
expected relief. The ve&longs;&longs;el drew nigh, and the ma&longs;ter
enquired what was the matter.
“We are in the utmo&longs;t di&longs;tre&longs;s,” &longs;aid Mr. Seward,
who took upon him to an&longs;wer. “We have been ten
weeks at &longs;ea, our provi&longs;ious are exhau&longs;ted, and we are
in danger of &longs;tarving.”
“I am &longs;orry for it,” replied the ma&longs;ter of the other
ve&longs;&longs;el; “but though we have a good wind now, we do
not know how &longs;oon it may change, and we may want
our provi&longs;ions our&longs;elves.”
It was in vain to attempt a reply; the ve&longs;&longs;el was again
put before the wind, and in a few moments the intervening
billows, which ro&longs;e to a tremendous height, hid her
from their view.
Silent and &longs;ad the di&longs;heartened mariners and pa&longs;&longs;engers
left the deck. Mr. Seward took his little girl in his
arms, his two boys hung on each &longs;ide of him; he endeavored
at a look of fortitude, but the gu&longs;hing tears
betrayed the angui&longs;h of the paternal heart. Rebecca
&longs;eated her&longs;elf on her bed, Mi&longs;s Abthorpe looked up in
her face for comfort, but &longs;he had none to offer; &longs;he
&longs;ighed and re&longs;ted her head on Rebecca's &longs;houlder.
“What &longs;hall we do,” &longs;aid &longs;he, mournfully.
“Tru&longs;t in God,” replied Rebecca, faintly, pre&longs;&longs;ing
her hand.
Mi&longs;s Abthorpe returned the pre&longs;&longs;ure, and they joined
in &longs;ervently committing them&longs;elves to the protecting
care of him who could &longs;ave to the uttermo&longs;t.
Ten days more pa&longs;&longs;ed on in this dreadful manner,
when another ve&longs;&longs;el was di&longs;covered, but, alas! Hope
refu&longs;ed to cheer their bo&longs;oms with the fainte&longs;t ray.
“We mu&longs;t make an attempt to move their compassion,
however,” &longs;aid the ma&longs;ter. Mr. Seward a&longs;&longs;ented
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to the propo&longs;al, and they mounted the deck together;
but Rebecca and her young lady &longs;at pen&longs;ive and &longs;ilent;
they hardly dared to hope, and the &longs;weet comforts of
religion forbade them to de&longs;pair.
The noi&longs;e on the deck prevented their hearing what
was &longs;aid, or whether any an&longs;wer was returned to their
entreaties. In a few moments the noi&longs;e increa&longs;ed almost
to tumult, a confu&longs;ed &longs;hout broke forth, which
the poor li&longs;tening females mi&longs;took for a murmur of horror
and di&longs;appointment.
“They have refu&longs;ed us,” cried Mi&longs;s Abthorpe, endeavouring
to ri&longs;e from her bed.
“I am afraid they have indeed,” &longs;aid Rebecca; but
“do not you attempt to go on deck—&longs;tay here and I
will go and enquire.” With tremulous and unequal
&longs;teps after repeated attempts, Rebecca reached the
gangway. She was ju&longs;t trying to mount the &longs;teps,
when her intent was fru&longs;trated by a &longs;udden motion of
the &longs;hip, and &longs;he fell down. “Heaven pre&longs;erve me!”
&longs;aid &longs;he, as &longs;he &longs;lowly aro&longs;e.
“Heaven has pre&longs;erved us all,” &longs;aid Mr. Seward,
as he de&longs;cended the &longs;teps,” for look, my good girl,
what a dinner its bounty has &longs;ent us.”
At that moment a &longs;trange &longs;ailor came down with a
large wooden bowl, in which was a fine piece of boiled
beef, &longs;ome potatoes, and a pea&longs;e pudding.
“God ble&longs;s your pretty hearts,” &longs;aid the &longs;ailor, looking
round at Rebecca, Mi&longs;s Abthorpe, and the young
Sewards, “come fall too and lay in a good cargo for
according to the log your are light enough now.”,
“You have robbed your&longs;elves, I fear,” &longs;aid Rebecca;
“this was intended for your dinners.”
“That is neither here nor there,” &longs;aid he, putting
a large quid of tobacco in his mouth; and &longs;plit
my top&longs;ails if I would not rather rob my&longs;elf any time
than &longs;ee a brother &longs;ailor want a dinner. D — e
we &longs;oon emptied the copper when we heard how clo&longs;e
hauled you were, and &longs;et old &longs;toke gally to work to
cook more; we brought enough for all, and they have
fallen too above board like a parcel of hungry &longs;harks.”
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Oh ye &longs;ons and daughters of luxury who&longs;e tables are
covered with the mo&longs;t co&longs;tly viands, and who turn
from them di&longs;&longs;atisfied and unthankful, could you feel
for a moment the ec&longs;ta&longs;y that pervaded the hearts of the
poor weary fami&longs;hed mariners who now were partaking
the provi&longs;ion their charitable brethren had brought
them, you would henceforward ju&longs;tly conceive the happiness
of your own lot, and bow with gratitude to the
Divine di&longs;pen&longs;er of all ble&longs;&longs;ings.
The freindly &longs;ailors now departed, having taken an
inventory of what was mo&longs;t requi&longs;ite for the releif of
their brethern, and in about an hour and a half returned
with their captain, and a &longs;upply of bread, chee&longs;e, meat,
butter, and candles, al&longs;o a &longs;mall quantity of &longs;pirituous
liquors to refre&longs;h the &longs;ailors.
“We mu&longs;t give you a bill on the owners,” &longs;aid Mr.
Seward, when he had taken an account of the &longs;tores
brought on board.
“No,” replied the generous captain, “I &longs;hall take
no bill. I expect no reward. I may one day be in the
&longs;ame &longs;ituation, and have only done as I would be done
by.”
[1]Exalted humanity, noble, di&longs;intere&longs;ted &longs;ailor, may
you ever experience from your fellow creatures the &longs;ame
benevolence that expands and elevates your own heart.
May your days be many and your pro&longs;perity equal to
your de&longs;erts.
Having taken a grateful leave of their benefactor,
they, with renovated &longs;pirits, pur&longs;ued their voyage, and
the wind changing in the cour&longs;e of a few days, drove
them rapidly towards their de&longs;ired haven, &longs;o that on
the twenty eighth of January, about two in the afternoon,
they heard the joyful &longs;ound of “Land a head.”
The port of Bo&longs;ton is &longs;ituated in &longs;uch a manner, that,
after having made land, &longs;ix or &longs;even hours good &longs;ailing
will take a ve&longs;&longs;el into &longs;afe harbour, &longs;o that our weary
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voyagers began to think of landing that evening, however
late it might be when they arrived; but as the night
came on, the wind increa&longs;ed, accompanied by &longs;now and
&longs;leet; the cold at the &longs;ame time being inten&longs;e, it fro&longs;e
as it fell, and in a very &longs;hort period the ropes about the
&longs;hip were &longs;o inca&longs;ed with ice, that they became immoveable;
the darkne&longs;s increa&longs;ed, and to add to their
di&longs;tre&longs;s, they lo&longs;t &longs;ight of the light hou&longs;e at the entrance
of the harbour.
Their &longs;ituation was now imminently dangerous: driving
before the wind, among a multitude of rocks and
breakers, without the lea&longs;t chance of avoiding them:
to be &longs;hipwrecked in the very &longs;ight of home, was a
painful trial indeed, yet this was what all expected, and
for which all endeavoured to prepare them&longs;elves with patient
re&longs;ignation.
About ten o'clock all their fears were realized, and a
&longs;udden &longs;hock convinced them they had &longs;truck on &longs;ome
rocks. The en&longs;uing &longs;cene from that time till &longs;even the
next morning is better imagined than de&longs;cribed, for till
that time they had no pro&longs;pect of relief, but continued
beating on the rocks, the waves wa&longs;hing over them,
and expecting momentary di&longs;&longs;olution. As the day-light
advanced they di&longs;covered the i&longs;land from which the reef
ran, to be inhabited[2]. Several mu&longs;kets were immediately
di&longs;charged, and &longs;ignals hung out, and about eight
o'clock they di&longs;covered people coming to their a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance.
It was impo&longs;&longs;ible to bring a boat near the ve&longs;&longs;el, but the
tide beginning to leave her, the men waded into the water,
and placed a ladder again&longs;t her &longs;ide, down which
the fear of immediate death gave Mi&longs;s Abthrope and
Rebecca courage to de&longs;cend; but what were the feelings
of Mr. Seward, when he found the impo&longs;&longs;ibility of
his little daughter's going down, &longs;o dangerous was it
rendered by the ice that enveloped the &longs;teps of the ladder,
and from whence, if &longs;he fell, &longs;he mu&longs;t have been
da&longs;hed to pieces or lo&longs;t among the rocks; nor did he
dare to venture to de&longs;cend him&longs;elf with her in his arms,
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le&longs;t a fal&longs;e &longs;tep or &longs;lip might de&longs;troy them both. But
there was no time for much deliberation, as it was absolutely
nece&longs;&longs;ary to leave the &longs;hip before the tide returned.
At length an old &longs;ailor offered an expedient which was
thought fea&longs;eable; and the agitated parent fa&longs;tened a
&longs;trong cord round the wai&longs;t of his child, by which he
lowered her down the &longs;ide of the ve&longs;&longs;el; the old &longs;ailor
caught her in his arms, and bore her exultingly to the
&longs;hore.
A new world now opened on Rebecca, who, when
&longs;he was a little recovered, beheld with a&longs;toni&longs;hment how
every object was bound in the frigid chains of winter.
The harbour, which &longs;he could &longs;ee from the hou&longs;e on the
i&longs;land, was one continued &longs;heet of ice. The face of the
country was entirely covered with &longs;now, and from the
appearance of all around &longs;he could form no probable
hope of getting to Colonel Abthorpe's till the genial influence
of &longs;pring &longs;hould unbind their fetters; but in this
&longs;he was agreeably mi&longs;taken, for the inhabitants of tho&longs;e
cold climates being accu&longs;tomed to the weather, were
quick in expedients to facilitate their conveyance from
one place to another. The very next morning a boat
was procured, and men being placed at the head, to
break the ice as they proceeded. By two o'clock, on
the thirtieth of January, our heroine found her&longs;elf once
more on terra firma, comfortably &longs;eated before a large
wood fire, in Colonel Abthorpe's parlour; for during
their voyage Mi&longs;s Abthurpe had conceived &longs;uch an
e&longs;teem for her, that &longs;he in&longs;i&longs;ted on her being con&longs;idered
as her friend and &longs;i&longs;ter, and her parents had too high a
re&longs;pect for their daughter, to wi&longs;h to contradict &longs;o laudable
a de&longs;ire.
eaf327.n1[1] This apo&longs;trophe is the genuine emotion of gratitude, the author
having in a &longs;ituation &longs;imilar to the one de&longs;cribed here, experienced relief
be&longs;towed in the &longs;ame di&longs;intere&longs;ted manner.
eaf327.n2[2] Lovel's I&longs;land.
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CHAP. XXIII. ON THE OTHER SIDE THE ATLANTIC.
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On the left hand of the entrance of Bo&longs;ton harbour
is a beautiful little penin&longs;ula, called N—; it
con&longs;i&longs;ts of two gradually ri&longs;ing hills, beautifully diversified
with orchards, corn-fields and pa&longs;ture land. In the
valley is built a little village, con&longs;i&longs;ting of about fifty
hou&longs;es, the inhabitants of which could ju&longs;t make &longs;hift to
decently &longs;upport a mini&longs;ter, who on a Sunday a&longs;cended
the pulpit in a ru&longs;tic temple, &longs;ituated by the &longs;ide of a
large piece of water, nearly in the middle of the village,
and taught, to the utmo&longs;t of his abilities, the true principles
of chri&longs;tianity. The neck of land which joins this
penin&longs;ula to the main is extremely narrow, and indeed is
&longs;ometimes almo&longs;t overflown by the tide. On one &longs;ide it
forms a charmingly picture&longs;que harbour, in which are a
variety of &longs;mall but delightfully fertile i&longs;lands, and on the
other it is wa&longs;hed by the ocean, to which it lays open.
In this enchanting village &longs;tood Mr. Abthorpe's hou&longs;e,
in the mid&longs;t of a neat and well cultivated garden; and
here it was that, as the &longs;pring advanced, our contemplative
heroine beheld with rapture the rapid progre&longs;s of
the infant vegitation; for the earth &longs;eemed hardly releafed
from the fleecy garb of winter, before it bur&longs;t forth
in the full bloom of vernal pride.
In this agreeable &longs;ituation Rebecca remained nearly
two years, enjoying as much felicity as &longs;he could expect
in the friend&longs;hip of Mr. and Mrs. Abthorpe and the
affection of their amiable daughter. It is true &longs;he sometimes
&longs;ighed when &longs;he thought of Sir George Worthy—
&longs;ometimes gazed on his portrait and that of his mother's,
till her eyes overflowing could no longer di&longs;tingui&longs;h
them. But the&longs;e were luxuries, too dangerous to be often
indulged, they only &longs;erved to enervate her mind, and
render her incapable of enjoying the ble&longs;&longs;ings placed
within her reach, and led her to repine at the wife
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difpensations of Providence; &longs;he therefore exerted her natural
good &longs;en&longs;e to keep the&longs;e acute &longs;en&longs;ibilities within
proper re&longs;trictions, and by &longs;triving to be happy in her
pre&longs;ent &longs;ituation, in a great mea&longs;ure rendered her&longs;elf
really &longs;o. She had many admirers, and might have entered
into matrimonial engagements greatly to her advantage,
but &longs;he re&longs;olutely re&longs;u&longs;ed them all, &longs;till maintaining
towards each that invariable politene&longs;s and
frankne&longs;s of demeanor, as at the &longs;ame moment extinguished
their tenderer hopes and yet conciliated their
e&longs;teem.
In the cour&longs;e of this time &longs;he had received two letters
from Mrs. Barton, and one from her mother; the former
informed her, that her hu&longs;band was entirely reclaimed,
that &longs;he was the happie&longs;t woman in the creation, and
that &longs;he hoped &longs;he &longs;hould one day have Rebecca a
witne&longs;s to her felicity; the contents of the latter was
not &longs;o plea&longs;ing; her mother complained of ill treatment
from her daughter-in-law, and extravagance in her husband;
at the &longs;ame time &longs;he informed her, &longs;he had ju&longs;t
lain in of a boy, who &longs;he hoped would be the comfort of
her old age.
“I wi&longs;h to heaven he may,” &longs;aid Rebecca, then laying
down the letter and reflecting how many leagues &longs;he
was from her only &longs;urviving parent; that perhaps &longs;he
might be in heavy affliction, ill treated by tho&longs;e on
whom &longs;he had placed the firme&longs;t reliance, laughed at by
the world, and not unlikely pinched by poverty. The
gentle-hearted girl bur&longs;t into tears; “Ah!” &longs;aid &longs;he,
“why did I leave my native country; I &longs;hould have remembered
that my poor mother had no real friend but
me, on whom &longs;he could &longs;afely rely for comfort in sickness
or affliction; I &longs;hould have remembered, that though
&longs;he had preferred the friend&longs;hip of others to mine, it
was &longs;till my duty not to leave her expo&longs;ed to misfortunes
which my pre&longs;ence and tender a&longs;&longs;iduties might
have alleviated.”
About this time the unhappy breach between Great
Britain and her colonies aro&longs;e to &longs;uch a height, that it
never could be healed, and war, in her mo&longs;t frightful
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&longs;hape, began to &longs;talk over this once happy land. Ere
this, the inhabitants of New-England, by their hospitality
and primitive &longs;implicity of manners, revived in the
mind of our heroine the golden age, &longs;o celebrated by
poets. Here were no locks or bolts required, for each
one, content with his own cot, coveted not the possessions
of his neighbour; here &longs;hould a &longs;tranger make his
appearance in their little village, though unknown by
all, every one was eager to &longs;hew him the mo&longs;t civility,
inviting him to their hou&longs;es, and treating him with every
delicacy the &longs;implicity of their manner of living afforded.
The only hou&longs;e of entertainment in this village, had
&longs;carcely cu&longs;tom &longs;ufficient to &longs;upply its venerable mi&longs;tre&longs;s
with the nece&longs;&longs;aries of life; but &longs;he had a garden, a
cow, and a few acres of land; the produce of the&longs;e
were &longs;ufficient to her wants and wi&longs;hes, and &longs;he would
&longs;it in her matted arm chair, in a room who&longs;e only beauty
was “the white-wa&longs;hed wall, the nicely &longs;anded
floor,” while the &longs;mile of content played about her
face, and while &longs;he thankfully enjoyed the bounties of
heaven, &longs;he remembered not that any could be richer
or happier than her&longs;elf.
But when fell di&longs;cord &longs;pread her &longs;able pinions and
&longs;hook her curling &longs;nakes, how &longs;oon this bli&longs;s&longs;ul pro&longs;pect
was rever&longs;ed; frighted at the horrid din of arms, hospitality
fled her once favourite abode, mutual confidence
was no more, and fraternal love gave place to jealou&longs;y,
diffen&longs;ion, and blind party zeal. The &longs;on rai&longs;ed his unhallowed
arm again&longs;t his parent, brothers drenched their
weapons in each other's blood, and all was horror and
confu&longs;ion. The terrified inhabitants of N— left
the village and took refuge in the more interior parts
of the country, all but Colonel Abthorpe's family, who
&longs;till remained, though de&longs;erted by all their &longs;ervants;
for the Colonel had too high a regard for his royal
ma&longs;ter to join the cau&longs;e of his enemies, and it was impossible
to join the Briti&longs;h troops without relinqui&longs;hing
all his property; he therefore hoped the &longs;torm would
&longs;oon pa&longs;s over; that &longs;ome method would be propo&longs;ed
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and accepted to conciliate matters, and in the mean
time he wi&longs;hed to remain neuter.
It was a &longs;till morning about the latter end of July,
when Rebecca, being di&longs;turbed by &longs;ome little ru&longs;tling
at her window, rai&longs;ed her head, and by the &longs;aint dawn
that ju&longs;t glimmered from the ea&longs;t, di&longs;covered armed
men placed round the hou&longs;e. Alarmed, &longs;he &longs;tarted
from her bed and awoke Mi&longs;s Abthorpe; they threw a
few clothes over them and flew to the Colonel's apartment.
They were met by Mrs. Abthorpe, who caught
her daughter in her arms, and, pointing to the room
where they u&longs;ually &longs;lept, cried, “Look Sophia, your
poor father.”
Mi&longs;s Abthorpe looked and beheld two &longs;oldiers with
firelocks, who placed at the door of the apartment, held
her father a pri&longs;oner.
“Ah, my dear mother,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “who are the&longs;e,
and what are they going to do; &longs;urely, &longs;urely they will
not murder us.”
“Don't frighten your&longs;elf, Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid one of the
officers, “we do not u&longs;ually murder &longs;uch pretty girls.”
“But my father,” cried &longs;he, eagerly, “what do you
intend to do with him.”
“Set him at liberty again when our expedition is
over.”
Rebecca now learnt that the&longs;e were a part of the
American army, who had come to N— in whaleboats,
with a de&longs;ign of dragging their boats acro&longs;s the
beach before mentioned, and proceeding to the light hou&longs;e
at the entrance of the harbour, intending to de&longs;troy it,
in order to mi&longs;lead the expected relief that was coming
to Bo&longs;ton which was at that time blockaded: they had
before made an un&longs;ucce&longs;sful attempt to demoli&longs;h this
light-hou&longs;e, and were now come re&longs;olved not to leave
their work unfini&longs;hed; accordingly they proceeded as
quiet as po&longs;&longs;ible to the beach, almo&longs;t carried their boats
over, and arrived totally unexpected at the little i&longs;land
on which the light-hou&longs;e &longs;tood, and which was guarded
by a party of marines. A &longs;mart &longs;kirmi&longs;h en&longs;ued, but
the Americans were too numerous to be with&longs;tood by &longs;o
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&longs;mall a party; the whole of which they either killed or
took pri&longs;oners; and having completed their de&longs;ign, returned
to N—, victorious, though in the utmo&longs;t
con&longs;ternation, for fear of being pur&longs;ued by boats from
the Lively frigate, and other &longs;hips that lay in the harbour.
Rebecca was &longs;tanding at a window as they relanded,
the tears &longs;treaming down her pale face, and &longs;o entirely
ab&longs;orbed in terror that &longs;he was inattentive to the surrounding
objects. From this &longs;tate of torpor &longs;he was
arou&longs;ed by a deep groan, and rai&longs;ing her eyes, &longs;aw two
Americans entering the hou&longs;e, bearing between them a
wounded marine, whom they laid on the floor, and
were preparing to depart, when Mrs. Abthorpe ru&longs;hed
out of the adjoining apartment.
“What are you doing?” &longs;aid &longs;he, “you will not
&longs;urely leave him here.”
`D—n him,” cried a wretch, “he is in our way;
if he don't die quickly we will kill him.”
“Oh, do not kill me!” &longs;aid the almo&longs;t expiring soldier;
“I am not fit to die.”
At this moment Major Tupper entered: Mrs. Abthorpe
addre&longs;&longs;ed him in a &longs;upplicating accent; “We
can procure the poor &longs;oul no affi&longs;tance,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “he
will peri&longs;h for want of proper applications to &longs;tanch the
blood.”
“My dear madam,” &longs;aid the Major, “what can we
do; we fear pur&longs;uit, and mu&longs;t retreat as fa&longs;t as po&longs;&longs;ible,
and &longs;hould we take him with us, in our hurry and confusion
he will perhaps be precipitated into eternity. If
we make a &longs;afe retreat I will &longs;end to morrow.” He
then departed, and Colonel Abthorpe being now at liberty,
turned his thoughts toward the wounded &longs;oldier.
He had fainted, a mattre&longs;s was laid on the ground,
and as they all united in endeavouring to remove him
upon it, the motion increa&longs;ed the angui&longs;h of his wounds,
and recalled his languid &longs;en&longs;es.
“Oh, Spare me! do not kill me!” &longs;aid he looking
round with a terrified a&longs;pect.
“Be comforted,” &longs;aid the colonel; “you are among
friends, who will do all in their power to &longs;ave your life.”
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“God will reward you,” &longs;aid he, faintly.
They now examined the wound, and found, from its
depth and &longs;ituation, that a few hours would terminate
the exi&longs;tence of the poor &longs;ufferer: however they made
long bandages of linen, and with pledgets dipped in spirits,
endeavoured to &longs;tanch the bleeding, but in vain.
“I am very faint,” &longs;aid he.
Rebecca knelt and &longs;upported him in her arms, a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted
by the weeping Sophia.
“Can I live, think you, Sir?” &longs;aid he, looking
wi&longs;hfully in the Colonel's face.
“I fear not,” was the reply.
“God's will be done,” &longs;aid he; but I have a long
account to &longs;ettle, and but a &longs;hort time to do it in.
Dear good Chri&longs;tians, pray with me—pray for me.
Alas, it is an awful thing to die, and with the weight
of murder on my con&longs;cience.” Here he grew faint
again and cea&longs;ed to &longs;peak. A cordial was admini&longs;tered—
he revived.
“You &longs;ee before you, my kind friends,” &longs;aid he
“a mo&longs;t unhappy man, the victim of his own folly.
My father is a clergyman in the North of England; I am
his only child, and have received from him an education
&longs;uitable to the &longs;tation in which he meant to have placed
me, which was the church; but, alas, I de&longs;pi&longs;ed his precepts,
and joined my&longs;elf to a &longs;et of the mo&longs;t di&longs;&longs;olute
companions, with whom I ran into every &longs;pecies of vice
and debauchery. By repeated extravagance I involved
my poor father, who, no longer able to &longs;upply my exhorbitant
demands, remon&longs;trated again&longs;t my way of life;
but I was too much attached to vice to re&longs;olve to quit
it, and in a fit of de&longs;peration, having lo&longs;t more money
than I could pay, I enli&longs;ted into a regiment bound for
this place. Ah, Sir, I have rea&longs;on to think my conduct
&longs;hortened the period of my dear mother's exi&longs;tence,
and I have embittered the la&longs;t hours of a father whom
it was my duty to comfort and &longs;upport. The&longs;e are
heavy clogs upon my departing &longs;oul, but he who witnesseth
the &longs;incerity of my repentance, I tru&longs;t will compassonate
and pardon me.”
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“No doubt of it,” cried Rebecca, who&longs;e heart was
almo&longs;t bur&longs;ting as &longs;he li&longs;tened to the expiring penitent.
He looked round, and fixing his eyes on Rebecca and
Sophia, “Poor girls,” &longs;aid he, “you are but young,
take the advice of a dying &longs;inner, and trea&longs;ure it in
your memories: obey your parents, never for&longs;ake them,
and &longs;hun vicious company, for had I done this it would
have been well with me in this evil day.”
Rebecca's &longs;u&longs;ceptible heart &longs;mote her, &longs;he hid her
face with her handkerchief, and &longs;ighed deeply.
“God for ever ble&longs;s you, my friends,” &longs;aid he; “I
am going, a few pangs more, and all will be over. Oh,
may he who&longs;e fatal aim took my life have it not remembered
again&longs;t him; may the Father of mercy forgive him
as freely as I do.”
He then began to repeat the Lord's Prayer, but expired
before he could fini&longs;h it.
“Peace to his repentant &longs;pirit,” &longs;aid the Colonel, as
he rai&longs;ed his weeping daughter from her knees.
“His poor father,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “what would he feel,
did he know this.”
“He felt more,” replied the Colonel, when the misguided
youth for&longs;ook the paths of virtue, than he would,
could he even behold him now.
The heat at this &longs;ea&longs;on of the year is inten&longs;e, and the
Colonel knew the body of the unhappy &longs;oldier mu&longs;t
that day be con&longs;igned to the earth, yet how to make
the grave, or how to convey the corp&longs;e to it when made
were difficulties which he could hardly think it po&longs;&longs;ible
to &longs;urmount, but &longs;ad nece&longs;&longs;ity enforced the attempt;
he fixed on a retired &longs;pot, ju&longs;t by the &longs;ide of his garden,
and began the melancholy ta&longs;k. Rebecca and Sophia
with their delicate hands endeavourd to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t, and by
evening they had completed it.
The faint rays of the &longs;etting &longs;un ju&longs;t tinged the summit
of the highe&longs;t hill; the &longs;ky was &longs;erene, and &longs;carce
a breeze was heard to move the leaves or ruffle the &longs;mooth
&longs;urface of the water. Awfully &longs;olemn was the &longs;ilenet
that reigned through this once cheerful village.
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As the Colonel &longs;at pen&longs;ively con&longs;idering his &longs;ituation,
and thinking how in the decente&longs;t manner po&longs;&longs;ible he
could render the la&longs;t &longs;ad duties to the decea&longs;ed, he &longs;aw
a &longs;mall fi&longs;hing boat, with one man in it, drawing near
the &longs;hore; he ran ha&longs;tily down, entreated him to land
and a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t him in his mournful office.
The body was carefully wrapped in a &longs;heet—it was
impo&longs;&longs;ible to obtain a coffin.
“We have no clergyman,” &longs;aid the Colonel, “but
the prayers of innocence &longs;hall con&longs;ecrate his grave.”
He gave the prayer book to Sophia, &longs;he opened it,
and with her mother and Rebecca followed the body.
She began the &longs;ervice, but her voice faltered, the tears
bur&longs;t forth, &longs;he &longs;obbed, and could no longer articulate.
The Colonel took it from her; he was a man of undaunted
courage in the day of battle, but here even his
heart &longs;unk and his voice was tremulous; but he recalled
his fortitude and fini&longs;hed the &longs;olemn rite in a becoming
manner.
“What a day has this been,” &longs;aid Sophia, as they
were partaking a little refre&longs;hment.
“It has been a heavy day indeed my child,” &longs;aid
Mrs. Abthorpe, “but how much heavier would it have
been, had the poor departed been related to us by any
ties of blood: had he been a father, a hu&longs;band, or a
brother. Think not of the evils we endure, my dear
Sophia, but reflect how much more painful our &longs;ituation
might be than it is, and offer up your thanks to your
Creator, that our afflictions do not exceed our &longs;trength,
and that in this &longs;olitary place we enjoy health and serenity
of mind.”
“Ah,” &longs;aid Rebecca, mentally, “I do not enjoy
that &longs;erenity, for my mother, in affliction, in want, and
calling in vain upon her daughter for comfort, is ever
pre&longs;ent to my imagination.”
For &longs;everal weeks the &longs;olitude of Colonel Abthorpe
was undi&longs;turbed, and Autumn began to advance. He
dreaded the approach of Winter, as he knew in that inclement
&longs;ea&longs;on they would feel the want of many comforts
they had been accu&longs;tomed to enjoy; and &longs;hut out
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from all &longs;ociety, how &longs;hould they procure &longs;u&longs;tenance.
The&longs;e reflections made him extremely unhappy. He
would gladly have gone to the Briti&longs;h troops, but had
no po&longs;&longs;ible means of conveying him&longs;elf and family to
them, and his heart revolted from the thought of going to
re&longs;ide with the enemies of his &longs;overeign; however they
gave him not the choice, for the latter end of October
they di&longs;patched a party, con&longs;i&longs;ting of a captain, lieutenant,
and fifty men, who &longs;urrounded the hou&longs;e of the
defencele&longs;s Colonel, making him&longs;elf, his wife, daughter,
and our heroine pri&longs;oners, on pretence of his having
held corre&longs;pondence with the enemy. They were conveyed
into the country, their hou&longs;e torn to pieces, their
furniture de&longs;troyed, burnt, or divided among the soldiers,
and all their property confi&longs;cated.
CHAP. XXV. SUFFERING LOYALTY.
Mrs. Abthorpe was a woman of delicate constitution.
This &longs;ad rever&longs;e of fortune was more than
&longs;he could well &longs;upport; a &longs;low nervous fever preyed upon
her frame; nor could the united efforts of her husband,
Sophia and Rebecca, arou&longs;e her from the &longs;tate of
torpor and inaction into which &longs;he had fallen, cooped up
in one &longs;ingle room (for, though pri&longs;oners, they had the
liberty of walking about the place to which they been
conveyed) obliged to perform the mo&longs;t menial offices for
them&longs;elves, with &longs;carcely the nece&longs;&longs;aries, and none of
the comforts of life, except what was &longs;upplied from &longs;ome
few benevolent families who were friends to government.
It may be ea&longs;ily &longs;uppo&longs;ed Col. Abthorpe and his family
acutely felt their painful &longs;ituation, yet he endeavoured
to &longs;upp ort him&longs;elf with a becoming fortitude.
Rebecca and her young Lady, in the cour&longs;e of a few
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months, learned to manage their wheels, which they
plied with diligence and dexterity, &longs;ometimes spinning
cotton, &longs;ometimes wool or flax, ri&longs;ing with the
lark, and continuing their labours with unremitting industry,
till the &longs;hades of evening prevented their pursuing
it. They would then, as the progre&longs;s of the &longs;pring
invited them, wander out to a neighbouring wood, the
borders of which were wa&longs;hed by a narrow arm of the
&longs;ea; they would &longs;it on its banks, watching the un&longs;table
element as it ebbed or flowed, and admiring the rich
beauties of the &longs;urrounding pro&longs;pect. Their hearts
were innocent. Youth, health and exerci&longs;e, gave them
a flow of &longs;pirits, and often as they &longs;at would they warble
&longs;ome innocent cheerful air, or in an evening hymn
of thank&longs;giving, lift up their &longs;ouls to their Creator.
But when the &longs;ummer was pa&longs;t, and winter in its
dread array drew near, when the pinching bla&longs;ts of December
pierced bleakly through the crevices of their miserable
habitation, and there was neither fire or necessary
food to alleviate the horrors in&longs;pired by the gloominess
of the &longs;ea&longs;on, then it was their &longs;pirits began to
flag. Sophia would gaze ardently at her mother, on
who&longs;e pale countenance &longs;ickne&longs;s and &longs;orrow &longs;at triumphant,
and while, with a faint &longs;mile of tender affection,
&longs;he endeavoured to cheer her, the &longs;tarting tear would
di&longs;cover the de&longs;pondency of her own heart.
It was a cold evening, the &longs;now fell fa&longs;t, a very &longs;mal
portion of fire glowed on the hearth, and the little light
in their apartment proceeded from a &longs;mall lamp that
was placed on a deal table; be&longs;ide which &longs;at Colonel
Abthorpe, his head re&longs;ted on his hand, his eyes fixed in
mournful contemplation on the altered face of his beloved
wife, who, &longs;eated oppo&longs;ite to him was diligently
employed in knitting, while Rebecca and Sophia were
in hopes, by the produce of their labours to
&longs;mall, very &longs;mall &longs;hare of comforts they
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“I have felt it colder,” replied his Lady, endeavouring
at a &longs;mile; “be&longs;ides the room is &longs;mall, and a little
fire warms it.”
“To be &longs;ure,” cried Sophia, “and then, while I
am at work, I never think of the cold; but I am afraid
of Rebecca; &longs;he is more delicate than I am.”
“Your fears are needle&longs;s, my love,” replied our heroine.
“I &longs;hould not mind the inclemency of the season
was your dear mother only comfortable.”
“We think our &longs;ituation hard,' &longs;aid Mrs. Abthorpe,
“what then is the &longs;ituation of the poor &longs;oldiers engaged
in the war?”
“Poor fellows,” &longs;aid the Colonel, pa&longs;&longs;ing his hand
acro&longs;s his forehead, to conceal the rheum that di&longs;tilled
from his eyes.
At that moment the door of their apartment opened,
and a &longs;tranger entered without ceremony.
The Colonel acro&longs;s. Mrs. Abthorpe bowed her head
in token of &longs;alutation, and the young ladies &longs;u&longs;pended
their work.
The &longs;tranger drew a chair. “You do not &longs;eem to
be comfortably &longs;ituated, Colonel,” &longs;aid he, as he &longs;eated
him&longs;elf, and ca&longs;t his eyes round the room.
“No,” replied the Colonel, with a deep drawn &longs;igh,
“comfort and I have long been &longs;trangers to each other.”
“Mrs. Abthorpe looks ill,” &longs;aid the &longs;tranger; “has
&longs;he had any advice?”
“The humanity of &longs;ome friends, Sir, have procured
her every medical a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance; but, alas! in vain—the
malady is &longs;eated in her mind.”
“I was enquiring about you the other day,” &longs;aid
the &longs;tranger, “and was &longs;orry to hear you were &longs;o badly
&longs;upplied with the nece&longs;&longs;aries of life. A plan has &longs;ince
&longs;truck me by which you may be relieved from the&longs;e distresses,
and re&longs;tored to the ea&longs;e and affluence
heretofore been accu&longs;tomed to enjoy.”
This was at once calling forth
ditors. Mrs. Abthorpe rai&longs;ed
face, Sophia and Rebecca
Colonel li&longs;tened in &longs;ilence,
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“Our army is at pre&longs;ent in want of experienced officers:
You do not hold any commi&longs;&longs;ion under the King
of England?”
“But I have eat his bread, Sir,” &longs;aid the colonel,
ha&longs;tily.
Mrs. Abthorpe &longs;ighed, and relap&longs;ed into her accustomed
pen&longs;ive &longs;tate.
“If you would accept a commi&longs;&longs;ion in our army,”
&longs;aid the &longs;tranger, “your property would be again restored,
and ample compen&longs;ation made for the lo&longs;&longs;es you
have &longs;u&longs;tained.”
The Colonel &longs;hook his head, and made a rejecting
motion with his hand.
“You will be rai&longs;ed to a rank &longs;uperior to any you
have held in the Briti&longs;h army, and your name will be
immortalized as one of the glorious &longs;upporters of American
liberty.”
The colonel frowned contemptuou&longs;ly, and was going
to &longs;peak, but the &longs;tranger interrupted him:
“You will have the felicity of &longs;eeing your amiable
wife and lovely daughter enjoying again the comforts
and elegancies of life. Plea&longs;ure will once more inhabit
their bo&longs;oms, and enliven their features.”
The Colonel gazed tenderly on his wife and daughter,
pau&longs;ed, and &longs;eemed irre&longs;olute. Mrs. Abthorpe read his
heart.
“And what,” &longs;aid &longs;he, addre&longs;&longs;ing the &longs;tranger, “are
the elegancies of life, when the mind no longer retains
its own approbation. It is true, Sir, the pre&longs;ent change
in our circum&longs;tances has awakened &longs;ome painful sensations;
but it has not made us unhappy. I do not repine,
for, though unfortunate, we are not de&longs;picable; our
integrity has ever been un&longs;haken, and, I tru&longs;t, will ever
remain &longs;o.”
“True my love,” &longs;aid the colonel, recollecting himself,
“we will bear the pre&longs;ent evils patiently, and hope
for better days in future.”
“But I would have you weigh this matter maturely,
Colonel,” &longs;aid the &longs;tranger, “before you pretend to decide.”
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“I have weighed it, Sir. You will pardon my abruptness,
and am determined to reject every offer that
would tend to draw me from the loyalty I owe the be&longs;t
of &longs;overeigns; and allow me to &longs;ay, I con&longs;ider &longs;uch offers
as in&longs;ults to my honour.”
“It is well, Sir,” &longs;aid the &longs;tranger, ri&longs;ing, “if your
re&longs;olution is taken, I will &longs;ay no more on the &longs;ubject;
but you will plea&longs;e to prepare your family for leaving
this place to-morrow. You are to be conveyed twenty
miles farther into the country.”
“Farther into the country, Sir!” &longs;aid the Colonel,
&longs;tarting. “My wife is unable to bear the journey.”
Sophia turned deathly pale, and left the room with
Rebecca.
“Do not be unea&longs;y, my dear Abthorpe,” &longs;aid the
amiable wife; I make no doubt but he, who for his own
wife purpo&longs;es, &longs;uffers us thus to be afflicted, will endue
me with &longs;trength of mind and body to bear it as becomes
a Chri&longs;tian.”
The &longs;tranger walked acro&longs;s the room. He was a
man of feeling, and had very unwillingly undertaken his
commi&longs;&longs;ion. He was po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of every virtue that could
alleviate the human heart. He had been taught to
think the cau&longs;e, in which he was engaged, was a right
cau&longs;e. He was young; his bo&longs;om glowed with enthusiastic
ardour. Can we blame him? for, though attached
to the cau&longs;e of his country, he was &longs;till more &longs;o to
that of humanity.”
“I am &longs;orry,” &longs;aid he; but a di&longs;agreeable oppre&longs;&longs;ion
upon the lungs prevented his proceeding farther.
The Colonel involuntarily took him by the hand:
“And had you, my dear Sir been tempted to de&longs;ert
your country's cau&longs;e? What &longs;ays your heart? Would
private intere&longs;t have triumphed over the &longs;pirit patrioti&longs;m
that now animates your bo&longs;om?”
“I have no wife and child,” &longs;aid he. The feelings
of &longs;en&longs;ibility could no longer be re&longs;trained, but ru&longs;hed
impetuous from his eyes and though he was a man of
undoubted valour, he did not blu&longs;h to indulge them.
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“Let tho&longs;e blu&longs;h,” &longs;aid he, mentally, who, “cannot
&longs;ympathize with an afflicted fellow creature.”
“But &longs;uppo&longs;e,” &longs;aid Mrs. Abthorpe, laying her hand
on his arm, for he had mechanically &longs;topped be&longs;ide her,—
“Suppo&longs;e, Sir, you had a wife, who would
feel more for your deviation from rectitude, than &longs;he
would to endure the harde&longs;t pangs of poverty and sickness,
and who would rather die than &longs;ee you an apo&longs;tate
to the cau&longs;e you had vowed for ever to e&longs;pou&longs;e.”
He turned abruptly from her; &longs;omething that &longs;poke
within forbade him to an&longs;wer.—
“And what have I done,” &longs;aid the Colonel, “that I
mu&longs;t leave a place where I have experienced &longs;uch friendship,
&longs;uch di&longs;intere&longs;ted affection, from many of the inhabitants?”
“You are too near the &longs;ea coa&longs;t,” &longs;aid the &longs;tranger,
and may hold corre&longs;pondence with the enemy.”
He averted his eye from the Colonel's face, and pretended
to con&longs;ult his watch. “It is later than I
thought,” &longs;aid he, endeavouring at indifference in his
voice and manner.
“At eight o'clock to-morrow I expect you will be
removed. God ble&longs;s you, my dear madam,” respectfully
taking Mrs. Abthorpe's hand.
She &longs;aw the feelings of his &longs;oul depicted in his face,
and forbore to encrea&longs;e them by unnece&longs;&longs;ary complaint.
“The change of air may do me good, Sir,” &longs;aid &longs;he
with a &longs;mile of complacency; “for it often happens
that what we dread as an evil, in the end contributes to
our advantage.”
He gazed on her with a look of reverence and wonder,
bowed profoundly, and, unable to articulate another sentence,
ha&longs;tily left the room.
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CHAP. XXVI. THE REMOVAL.
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“And mu&longs;t we leave this place, my dear father?”
&longs;aid Sophia, coming from a &longs;mall adjoining
apartment, whither &longs;he had retired to indulge the tears
&longs;he was no longer able to re&longs;train: “Mu&longs;t we be separated
from tho&longs;e friends who&longs;e generous attentions have
lightened all our afflictions?”
“We mu&longs;t, Sophia” &longs;aid her father, rather &longs;ternly,
“to-morrow morning.”
“Ah! me,” &longs;aid the weeping girl, turning to Rebecca,
and re&longs;ting her head on her &longs;houlder.
“Do not grieve thus, my dear Sophia,” &longs;aid our heroine;
for though &longs;eparated from your friends, you will
&longs;till live in their remembrance, and they in your's.”
“Yes,” cried Sophia, with a look of grateful rapture,
“ever while the vital tide nouri&longs;hes my heart. Dear,
worthy inhabitants of [3]Hingham, when I forget the
friend&longs;hip that alleviated my parent's &longs;orrows, may that
heart cea&longs;e to beat.”
The next morning, ju&longs;t as the grey dawn began to
enliven the Ea&longs;t, Mr. Abthorpe's family were called to
begin their journey. An open chai&longs;e, drawn by a miserable
hor&longs;e, was all the conveyance provided for Mrs.
Abthorpe, Sophia and Rebecca; the Colonel him&longs;elf
was expected to walk. About nine o'clock in the morning
they &longs;et out, but the roads were &longs;o full of &longs;now,
and the hor&longs;e &longs;o old and lame, that, though they had
only a journey of twenty miles to make, they had not
completed it at four o'clock in the afternoon. The
darkne&longs;s of night had begun to envelope every object,
when the chai&longs;e &longs;topped at a hut that could &longs;carcely be
called habitable. Rebecca and Sophia a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted Mrs. Abthorpe
to alight; gloomy as was the outward appearance
of their de&longs;tined habitation, the in&longs;ide &longs;erved only
to increa&longs;e their horror; it con&longs;i&longs;ted of three rooms.
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The windows had once been glazed, but were now &longs;ome
parts open, and others mended with wood. One room
was boarded, the others had only the ground for a floor.
There were two chimnies, large and dreary, in which
no trace of fire appeared; all was de&longs;olate and gloomy!
It was now quite dark, the Colonel was not yet arrived.
Rebecca and Sophia felt round the damp &longs;olitary
rooms for &longs;omething on which Mrs. Abthorpe might &longs;it
down, for &longs;he was faint and weary from taking no refreshment
during their tedious journey, and having been
expo&longs;ed to the inten&longs;e cold &longs;o many hours; but their
&longs;earch was vain, no &longs;eat could be found: they took
off their own loaks, and laid them on the floor: On
the&longs;e &longs;he &longs;unk weak and exhau&longs;ted, and, in &longs;pite of her
accu&longs;tomed fortitude, &longs;uffering nature wrung from her a
few complaints.—Rebecca and Sophia knelt be&longs;ide and
&longs;upported her—the voice of comfort no longer i&longs;&longs;ued
from their lips—their &longs;ighs re&longs;pon&longs;ive an&longs;wered her's—
their tears mingled as they fell—but all remained silent.
They heard foot&longs;teps approach—the Colonel's well
known voice &longs;aluted their ears.
“Dry your eyes, my dear girls,” &longs;aid Mrs. Abthorpe;
“Let us not increa&longs;e his &longs;orrows, who&longs;e every
pang is doubled by our &longs;ufferings.”
The Colonel entered, &longs;ome one accompanied him for
they could hear more than one foot&longs;tep.
“We &longs;hall have a fire &longs;oon,” &longs;aid the Colonel; “it
is a very cold evening.”
“But I am well wrapped up, and do not feel it,”
&longs;aid Mrs. Abthorpe.
His heart thanked her though it refu&longs;ed to believe
her a&longs;&longs;ertion.
Ju&longs;t then a third per&longs;on entered, and threw down an
armful of wood, when the per&longs;on, who had accompanied
the Colonel, produced a tinder box and &longs;triking a
light di&longs;coverd to the a&longs;toni&longs;hed females the &longs;ons of two
of their be&longs;t friends.
Mr. Lane! Mr. Barker! involuntarily bur&longs;t from all
their lips; but the generous young men would not hear
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a word of prai&longs;e or thanks; they &longs;oon cheered the &longs;olitary
man&longs;ion with a comfortable fire; in the mean time a &longs;mall
cart arrived with two beds, a few chairs, and &longs;ome kitchen
uten&longs;ils. From a ba&longs;ket in this cart the young men
produced a couple of fowls, &longs;ome butter, bread, and two
bottles of wine, &longs;o that in le&longs;s than two hours, from
their fir&longs;t melancholy entrance, our di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed family were
&longs;eated in homely wi&longs;e round an old wain&longs;cot table, before
a large fire, partaking a plentiful &longs;upper, while
their hearts expanded with gratitude to that good Providence
who had rai&longs;ed them up friends when lea&longs;t expected.
The next morning the young men exerted them&longs;elves
to repair the breaches in the windows, and to &longs;top the
large crevices in the doors of the hou&longs;e, having to the
utmo&longs;t of their power, le&longs;&longs;ened their troubles, and rendered
them tolerably comfortable, they departed, leaving
behind them &longs;ome meat, bread, butter, chee&longs;e, and
a &longs;mall parcel of tea and &longs;ugar; but, as the la&longs;t-named
articles were at that time extremely &longs;carce, they could
not be &longs;o liberal as their expanded hearts lead them
to wi&longs;n.
Oh! with what rapture mu&longs;t the parents of the&longs;e
young men have received them after &longs;uch a journey, to
which they had been incited by motives of the pure&longs;t benevolence;
but benevolence was their characteri&longs;tics.
[4]Ble&longs;t &longs;pirits of philanthropy, who&longs;e hearts ere discord
&longs;hook her baleful wings, and &longs;hed her influence
over your happy plains, in a &longs;tate of almo&longs;t primeval innocence,
&longs;elt not a pang but for another's woe, and
who&longs;e fir&longs;t plea&longs;ure was to alleviate the &longs;orrows of a suffering
fellow creature! May the arrows of afflictions
with which an unnatural war has &longs;ince wounded you,
be drawn forth by the hand of &longs;ympathizing friend&longs;hip
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and the angui&longs;h of them obliterated by the recollection
of your own good deeds.
But this is a theme which carries me from every
other. I would reque&longs;t pardon for digre&longs;&longs;ing my subject,
but I know tho&longs;e only will blame me, who never
felt the &longs;weet emotions of unbounded gratitude.
But to return.—
The habitation to which Colonel Abthorpe had been
thus &longs;uddenly removed, was &longs;ituated on the &longs;kirts of an
exten&longs;ive wood. The face of the country was rocky
and dreary, to which unpromi&longs;ing appearance the &longs;now
and ice not a little contributed. There was but one habitation
within two miles of them, and that was occupied
by people, if po&longs;&longs;ible more wretched than themselves.
In this di&longs;mal &longs;ituation, with no amu&longs;ement but what
&longs;prang from them&longs;elves, for they had not even the consolation
of books, did the Colonel and his family pa&longs;s
four weari&longs;ome months, during which time they had of
ten no food but coar&longs;e Indian bread and potatoes; nor
any firing but what Sophia and Rebecca a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted each
other to bring in their delicate arms from the adjacent
woods, for the Colonel him&longs;elf was great part of that
time con&longs;ined to the hou&longs;e with the gout; and in their
daily excur&longs;ions to procure this nece&longs;&longs;ary appendage to
the &longs;upport of life in &longs;o cold a climate, they had no covering
to their &longs;eet, which often bled from the intenseness
of the cold, or from inci&longs;ions made by the rugged
path over which they were obliged to pa&longs;s.
It was the latter end of March, the ice was beginning
to di&longs;&longs;olve in the warmth of a mid day &longs;un, when Rebecca,
willing to enjoy a &longs;hort &longs;pace of uninterrupted
reflection, &longs;allied into the woods, unaccompanied by
Mi&longs;s Abthorpe. As &longs;he gathered up &longs;ome &longs;cattered
branches, and laid them together, her thoughts wandered
to her native land. She retraced every event of
her pa&longs;t life; “And where now is Sir George?” &longs;aid
&longs;he. “Could he behold me at this in&longs;tant, how
would his generous heart compa&longs;&longs;ionate my misfortunes;
but, alas! perhaps I am no more remembered by him,
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or he con&longs;iders me as numbered with the dead; and am
I not &longs;o to him? Then, why &longs;hould I wi&longs;h him to retain
me in his mind, when, by forgetting me, he may
regain that felicity his generous &longs;entiments in my favour
had interrupted. No doubt, he is long &longs;ince married
to the Lady with whom his mother wi&longs;hed him to unite.
Ah! my beloved benefactre&longs;s,” continued &longs;he, &longs;itting
down on a large &longs;tone at the foot of a &longs;preading pine,
“dear Lady Mary, little did you think when I parted
from you we were never more to meet! But that anguish
of heart would from that hour be the unremitting
portion of your Rebecca.”
She then drew forth the picture, which, through all
her di&longs;tre&longs;s, &longs;he had &longs;till carefully pre&longs;erved, and constantly
carried about her in a &longs;mall pur&longs;e, in which &longs;he
had al&longs;o depo&longs;ited Sir George's letter, and tho&longs;e &longs;he had
received from her mother. As &longs;he opened this precious
repo&longs;itory, her mother's writing caught her eye.
“My poor mother,” &longs;aid &longs;he—“what waves, what
in&longs;urmountable waves, now roll between us! Shall I
ever again behold you? Or is it my fate here, far distant
from my native land, to end an exi&longs;tence, which
though &longs;hort, has been marked by variety of &longs;orrow?”
Here painful remembrance over-powered her. She rested
her cheek on her hand, and as &longs;he held the picture
in the other, alternately rai&longs;ed her &longs;treaming eyes to
heaven, and then fixed them on the portrait of Sir
George.
She was arou&longs;ed from this painful reverie by a deep
drawn &longs;igh, which &longs;eemed to proceed from a per&longs;on
very near her, and, &longs;tarting, &longs;aw a venerable old man
&longs;tanding oppo&longs;ite her, habited in a lieutenant's dirty
uniform.
She aro&longs;e, and, tying her bundle of wood together,
was preparing to lift it, when the old officer approached.
“It is too heavy for you, child,” &longs;aid he; “give
me leave to carry it.”
“I have not far to go, Sir,” &longs;aid Rebecca.
“Perhaps you are going by the unfortunate Colonel
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Abthorpe's habitation, or can direct me where to find
it?”
“I live in his family,” &longs;aid Rebecca, eagerly. “Do
you know him, Sir?”
“Alas! no, my dear child; but hearing he was a
pri&longs;oner at this place, and being my&longs;elf in the &longs;ame unhappy
predicament, I am going to claim his &longs;ociety,
hoping that, as brothers in affliction, we may be enabled
to comfort each other: But, &longs;urely, I have &longs;een you
before, though where or when I can by no means recollect.”
“Your features too,” &longs;aid Rebecca, “&longs;eem samiliar
to me, yet I do not think we ever met before.”
They had now reached the hou&longs;e, and depo&longs;iting
their burthen at the door, entered.
“You will pardon me, Sir,” &longs;aid the old lieutenant,
advancing to the Colonel, “if I, una&longs;ked, intrude myself
into your dwelling; but hearing there was an officer
in this place, I could not re&longs;i&longs;t the defire I &longs;elt to be
known to him.”
“And by what name am I to know and thank you
for this civility?” &longs;aid the Colonel, placing a chair for
his gue&longs;t.
“My name is Littleton.”
“Littleton!” cried Rebecca, &longs;tepping eagerly forward.
“Yes, George Littleton,” &longs;aid the Lieutenant. I
have worne his Maje&longs;ty's livery above twenty years.
“My name is Littleton,” &longs;aid Rebecca.
“And your father's name?”
“Was William.—
“He is dead, then,” &longs;aid Mr. Littleton, with a difappointed
look.
Rebecca's tears confirmed the &longs;u&longs;picion.
“And did you never hear him &longs;peak of a brother?”
“Yes, but as of one long &longs;ince dead.”
“Alas! he thought me dead, but I am that brother;
nor can I doubt but you are his child, you bear &longs;o
&longs;trong a re&longs;emblance to him. My dear girl,” continued
he, embracing her, “how my heart bleeds to meet
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you here, and &longs;o badly &longs;heltered from the inclemency of
the &longs;eafon.
A few moments were now devoted to mutual gratulations
and mutual condolence. When the fir&longs;t tumult
was a little &longs;ub&longs;ided, Rebecca wi&longs;hed to be informed how
it happened that her uncle had been &longs;o long &longs;uppo&longs;ed
dead by her father?”
“Di&longs;appointment and vexation,” &longs;aid the old gentleman,
“drove me from my native country; the lo&longs;s of a
wife and child, whom I tenderly loved, di&longs;gu&longs;ted me
with life, and I &longs;hipped my&longs;elf to the Ea&longs;t-Indies, from
whence I hoped never to return.”
eaf327.n3[3] A village about twenty miles from Bo&longs;ton.
eaf327.n4[4] The Author begs leave to add to the names already mentioned,
tho&longs;e of Gay, Levith, and Thaxter. It is a tribute of gratitude due to
that exalted philanthropy, that evinced it&longs;elf in a di&longs;intere&longs;ted friendship
for a family, whole misfortunes were their chief recommendation
and who had not the mo&longs;t di&longs;tant hope of being ever able to cancel
their repeated obligations.
CHAP. XXVII. AN OLD MAN'S TALE.
“I AM &longs;everal years younger than was your father,
and was placed by an old uncle with a wealthy
merchant, with whom he promi&longs;ed to e&longs;tabli&longs;h me when
I had &longs;erved my clerk&longs;hip with honour.
“My ma&longs;ter had an only child; &longs;he was not what is
u&longs;ually called a beauty, but &longs;he was in my eyes more.
Her features were regular; the gentlene&longs;s of her &longs;pirit
threw a &longs;oftne&longs;s over her countenance, which at once prepossessed
every beholder in her favour. Added to the meek
forgiving &longs;pirit of a Chri&longs;tian, &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed all the intripid
fortitude and courage of a Roman matron. The innocence
of her heart in&longs;pired her with unaffected cheerfulness,
and a mo&longs;t engaging vivacity was tempered with a
mode&longs;t &longs;implicity.
Such was Ro&longs;a Ben&longs;on, when at the age of eighteen
&longs;he was &longs;ent for from France, where &longs;he had been educated,
to take the care of her father's hou&longs;e, her mother
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having been taken &longs;uddenly off by an appoplexy. I was
ju&longs;t two years older, and could not behold unmoved, the
innumerable charms that were daily di&longs;played by this engaging
girl. She performed on the harp&longs;ichord with great
ta&longs;te and execution, had a &longs;oft melodious voice, and &longs;ung
with judgment. Her mind had been carefully cultivated,
which rendered her a well informed rational companion.
Mr. Ben&longs;on generally &longs;pent his evenings abroad, and
I frequently pa&longs;t many hours in uninterrupted conversation
with the charming Ro&longs;a.
I will not pretend to delineate the various imperceptible
degrees by which our hearts became attached to each
other: Suffice it to &longs;ay, we &longs;elt the power of love mingled
with the pure&longs;t friend&longs;hip; nor did we once reflect
on the imprudence of indulging our &longs;en&longs;ibility till awakened
from our dream of bli&longs;s by Mr. Ben&longs;on informing
his daughter, that her hand was &longs;olicited by an Earl,
and that he had given him leave to addre&longs;s her; at the
&longs;ame time he gave her to under&longs;tand, he did not expect
any oppo&longs;ition to his will, and &longs;lattered him&longs;elf he &longs;hould
&longs;oon behold her a Counte&longs;s.
When Mi&longs;s Ben&longs;on informed me of this unexpected
&longs;troke, I &longs;elt as though annihilated: I threw my&longs;elf at
her feet, and entreated her not to make me the mo&longs;t
wretched of human beings by accepting my noble rival.
She a&longs;&longs;ured me &longs;he had too high a &longs;en&longs;e of honour to
give her hand to one man, while her heart was entirely
devoted to another, but &longs;till I was unhappy; nor did I
cea&longs;e &longs;oliciting the dear girl till &longs;he con&longs;ented to be mine
by the &longs;tronge&longs;t of all ties, and by a private marriage I
&longs;ecured to my&longs;elf, as I then thought, the mo&longs;t permanent
felicity.
Still the Earl continued his affiduities: but Ro&longs;a
found means to evade her father's earne&longs;t wi&longs;hes, and a
more wealthy woman falling in his lord&longs;hip's way, who
had no objection to making the exchange of money for a
title, &longs;he was for that time delivered from farther importunity.
About &longs;ix months after our marriage, it became necessary
for Mr. Ben&longs;on to &longs;end a per&longs;on to the
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West-Indies, with powers to &longs;ettle &longs;ome bu&longs;ine&longs;s with the merchants
there: It was a lucrative employment. He mentioned
to my uncle that I might, if I cho&longs;e, undertake
the voyage. My uncle acquie&longs;ced. There was no alternative,
and I was under the nece&longs;&longs;ity of leaving my
wife, whom I could by no means per&longs;uade to accquaint
her father with our marriage previous to my departure.
During my ab&longs;ence I was much &longs;urprized at receiving
no letters from my dear Ro&longs;a; but as I was &longs;en&longs;ible there
might be various cau&longs;es for this apparent neglect, it only
&longs;erved to render me more attentive to my bu&longs;ine&longs;s, as I
knew the &longs;ooner it was fini&longs;hed, the &longs;ooner I &longs;hould return
to the wife of my choice, the freid of my bo&longs;om.
At length it was completed, and I returned to my native
land, after being ab&longs;ent from it about thirteen months.
Eagerly did I count the minutes whil&longs;t travelling
from Deal to London; and when the chai&longs;e &longs;topped
at Mr. Ben&longs;on's door, my heart throbbed with &longs;uch violence
that I could hardly &longs;peak. I alighted, and ran
ha&longs;tily up &longs;tairs; but was much &longs;urpri&longs;ed, on entering
the drawing-room, to &longs;ee a &longs;trange Lady there, young
hand&longs;ome, and elegantly dre&longs;&longs;ed. Mr. Ben&longs;on mention
ed her as his wife.
“And where is Mi&longs;s Ro&longs;a?” &longs;aid I.
“She is not at home,” replied Mr. Ben&longs;on, coolly;
“but, come Littleton take your tea, and then we will
go into the counting hou&longs;e, and talk over bu&longs;ine&longs;s.”
Con&longs;cious as I was of the near intere&longs;t I took in every
thing that concerned Ro&longs;a, I forbore to mention her
again, left the agitation of my mind &longs;hould be betrayed
by my countenance; I took my tea in &longs;ilence, and then
de&longs;cended with my ma&longs;ter to the counting-hou&longs;e, where,
in as conci&longs;e a manner as po&longs;&longs;ible, I gave him an account
of the bu&longs;ine&longs;s I had been &longs;ent upon, and delivered to
him all the bills and other papers I had brought with
me from Jamacia; this employed us till near one o'clock
in the morning, and, &longs;atigued as I was, I could not but
be &longs;urpri&longs;ed that my hitherto indulgent ma&longs;ter &longs;hould
have no thought of the long voyage and journey I had
ju&longs;t arrived from, and that I certainly required re&longs;t.
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When we had entirely fini&longs;shed, he thus addre&longs;&longs;ed me:
“I promi&longs;ed you, Littleton, that this &longs;hould be a lucrative
bu&longs;ine&longs;s to you, there (opening his pocket
book;) there are bills to the amount of two hundred
pounds; and now, Sir, let me tell you, that you are a
knave and a villain, a de&longs;igning, deceitful, &longs;coundrel,
who, under the ma&longs;k of honor and probity, have robbed
me of my daughter, &longs;tolen her affections, and encouraged
her in di&longs;obedience. It is to your arts I owe her
refu&longs;al of the Earl of—, and had &longs;he not been your
wi&longs;e, &longs;he would at this moment, have been a Dutche&longs;s.”
I had &longs;at as one petrified during this &longs;peech; but on
his again calling me by the opprobious names already
mentioned, I rou&longs;ed my&longs;elf, and endeavoured to an&longs;wer;
but his pa&longs;&longs;ion, like a torrent, bore down all before it,
and I was obliged to be &longs;ilent. At length he told me
he had di&longs;claimed his daughter, that he had &longs;ent her
from his hou&longs;e, and would never give her a &longs;ingle farthing,
no not even to keep her from &longs;tarving.
“But go,” continued he, “go to her, and may you
both, with your brat, &longs;tarve together.”
The mention of a child operated on my nerves like a
&longs;troke of electricity. “And where are they, Sir?”
&longs;aid I, &longs;tarting from my &longs;eat, “where are my Ro&longs;a and
her in&longs;ant?”
“Somewhere in the country,” &longs;aid he; “but I don't
concern my&longs;elf with them, nor do I ever wi&longs;h to &longs;ee you
or her again. You have di&longs;appointed me in my deare&longs;t
hopes and I will &longs;eek con&longs;olation in the company of an
amiable woman, who may, perhaps, yet bring me children
more dutiful than the ungrateful viper you have
married.”
He then flung out of the room, and I too much irritated
to remain in a hou&longs;e where I had been &longs;o ill treated,
was preparing to leave it, when the door opened,
and one of the hou&longs;e maids entered, looking carefully
round her.
“I am glad you are come, Sir,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “my poor
young Lady will rejoice to &longs;ee you.”
“Where is &longs;he, Betty?” &longs;aid I.
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“At Wind&longs;or,” replied the girl, “at my &longs;i&longs;ter's;
but &longs;he has never been well &longs;ince ma&longs;ter was born.”
I took a direction from the girl, and &longs;et off immediately,
as I could procure a chai&longs;e.
It was between five and &longs;ix when I arrived at Windfor,
and having ordered &longs;ome breakfa&longs;t, though I had
no inclination to eat, I &longs;ent for the woman with whom
my love lodged, and finding her a di&longs;creet &longs;en&longs;ible person,
intru&longs;ted her with a letter to be dilivered cautiously,
to the dear creature, who I found was in a very
alarming &longs;tate.
In about two hours I was &longs;ummoned to the cottage
that contained all my trea&longs;ure; but, good heaven! how
&longs;hall I de&longs;cribe my &longs;en&longs;ation at the &longs;ight of my wife,
&longs;carcely the &longs;hadow of her former &longs;elf—pale—thin—her
eyes &longs;unk heavy—and devoid of lu&longs;ter!”
“George,” &longs;aid &longs;he, putting her dear boy into my
arms, “you are come home in time to receive this
pledge of my love, and to clo&longs;e my eyes; but I &longs;hall die
content, &longs;en&longs;ible that you will be a kind father to my
child.”
I endeavourd to cheer her, and in&longs;pire her with hopes
which I could not rationally indulge my&longs;elf. I procured
the be&longs;t medical advice, but all in vain; &longs;he grew wor&longs;e
and wor&longs;e, and expired in le&longs;s than a fortnight after
my arrival in England.
Previous to her death &longs;he informed me that another,
&longs;till more &longs;plended, offer of marriage, &longs;trenuou&longs;ly urged by
her father, had wrung from her the &longs;ecret of our marriage,
and that &longs;he was immediately di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ed from her father's
hou&longs;e in the mo&longs;t di&longs;graceful manner; that
&longs;he had wrote to my uncle, claiming his protection-
if not on her own account, for the &longs;ake of the unborn infant;
but his ans&longs;wer was, that as I cho&longs;e to marry without
con&longs;ulting him, I might maintain my wife as I
could for he would never more do any thing for me;
and as to her he thought &longs;he mu&longs;t have behaved very ill,
when her own father had di&longs;carded her. From that time
he entirely withdrew his favour, from me, and, though
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I went to him &longs;oon after the death of my wife, I was
not permitted to &longs;ee him.
About this time your father, who was then an en&longs;ign
in a marching regiment, was ordered to Ireland. I had
not &longs;een him for &longs;ome years, as he had been &longs;tationed at
Plymouth; but could not let him leave the kingdom
without taking a per&longs;onal leave: I therefore left my
dear boy with the good woman where my Ro&longs;a had
lodged, and &longs;at off for that place.
I had not been with my brother above three days,
before I received a letter from the nur&longs;e, informing me
that my boy had been carried off by a convul&longs;ion fit the
day after I left Wind&longs;or. The world now appeared to
me an univer&longs;al blank. I con&longs;idered my&longs;elf as a mere
cypher, without family, connexion or friends, and possessing
but a &longs;mall portion of wordly goods. I had formed
an acquaintance with &longs;everal officers belonging to
one of his Maje&longs;ty's &longs;hips going to China; a de&longs;ire of
roving took po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of my mind. I had, when a boy,
been fond of the &longs;tudy of mathematics, and during my
voyage to Jamaica, had contracted a fondne&longs;s for a nautical
life, I therefore reque&longs;ted to be admitted on board
the Triton, and was accepted.
In this &longs;hip I went to the Ea&longs;t-Indies, fully re&longs;olved
never to vi&longs;it England again. This re&longs;olution I kept inviolate
for many years, always, changing into &longs;ome &longs;hip
&longs;tationed in tho&longs;e parts whenever the one I was in was
remanded home. In his Maje&longs;ty's &longs;ervice I aro&longs;e by
degrees to the rank of lieutenant, and my ambition had
led me to hope, during this war, I &longs;hould have ri&longs;en
&longs;till higher, for the &longs;hip I was in, being ordered home,
and I unable to obtain an exchange into one &longs;tationed in
India, I returned to England, and was &longs;oon after &longs;ent
in a cutter with expre&longs;&longs;es to the fleet at New-York, from
whence I was di&longs;patched to Bo&longs;ton, where I unfortunately
arrived after the evacuation of his Maje&longs;ty's
troops, and of con&longs;equence fell into the hands of the
enemy. I have been detained a pri&longs;oner now near two
years, frequently removed from one place to another,
and every removal is &longs;till for the wor&longs;e; but I hear there
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is now an exchange of pri&longs;oners talked of, &longs;o I hope to
be included in the cartel.
“But did you never write to my father?” &longs;aid Rebecca.
“Yes, frequently, during the fir&longs;t year of my absence
from Europe; but never receiving any an&longs;wers,
owing, as I imagined, to the un&longs;ettled life a &longs;oldier in
general leads, I at length cea&longs;ed to write. When I
was la&longs;t in England I enquired for him of &longs;ome of our
old friends, and learned that he was married, and had
one child; but they could give no information where he
was &longs;ettled, as they had neither &longs;een or heard from
him for many years.”
Rebecca felt a gleam of comfort dilate her affectionate
heart, at having thus unexpectedly found a relation:
“I am not then entirely unconnected,” &longs;aid &longs;he, mentally,
at the &longs;ame time laying her hand on that of her
uncle, and looking at him with eyes &longs;wimming in tears
of filial tenderne&longs;s, excited by the &longs;trong re&longs;emblance he
bore to her father.
“My dear girl,” &longs;aid he, “you have found an old
uncle who will love you with all his heart, and defend
you to the la&longs;t hour of his exi&longs;tence; but I am as poor,
Rebecca, as when I fir&longs;t put on his Maje&longs;ty's livery. In
all my long &longs;ervicce I have not picked up above two
hundred pounds prize-money, and, thinking I had no
one to take it after me, I have &longs;pent it as fa&longs;t, or, perhaps,
&longs;ometimes fa&longs;ter than I gained it. But my pay
has been running &longs;o long, we &longs;hall be quite rich when I
get home, and you &longs;hall call me father, and make up to
me the lo&longs;s of my Ro&longs;a and her boy.”
“I will be your daughter in every &longs;en&longs;e of the word,”
&longs;aid Rebecca, affectionately ki&longs;&longs;ing his hand.
The conver&longs;ation now took a more general turn: Colonel
Abthorpe was delighted with the acqui&longs;ition of a
friend. They could not think of parting till evening,
nor then without a mutual promi&longs;e of maintaining a frequent
intercour&longs;e.
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CHAP. XXVIII. WE COME HOME AGAIN.
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When Colonel Abthorpe retired to re&longs;t, he revolved
in his mind what Mr. Littleton had &longs;aid
concerning an exchange of pri&longs;oners. His wife's declining
health had long made him unea&longs;y. He flattered
him&longs;elf was he once removed from captivity, and enabled
to obtain &longs;ub&longs;i&longs;tence for his family, her mind would
be more at ea&longs;e, and &longs;he would of con&longs;equence recover
her health and &longs;pirits. The&longs;e reflections occupied
him all night, and totally bani&longs;hed &longs;leep. At dawn of
day he aro&longs;e, and &longs;at down to draw up a petition, praying
to be, with his family, included in the intended
exchange.—This petition he pre&longs;ented to the &longs;elect-men
of the place, to be by them tran&longs;mitted to the general
court. The an&longs;wer he received was a repetition of the
offers of employment in the American army, enforced
with promi&longs;es of the mo&longs;t beneficial and lucrative rewards
for his &longs;ervices. The&longs;e he &longs;trenuou&longs;ly rejected,
declaring a re&longs;olution to die rather than for&longs;ake the
cau&longs;e of loyalty.
They found it was in vain to increa&longs;e either their offers
of affluence, or their ill treatment; he was alike
unmoved by either, at lea&longs;t he did not &longs;uffer them to
perceive the effect his mi&longs;eries had on his mind. If he
&longs;ighed it was in &longs;ecret, and he waited with an a&longs;&longs;umed
patience the end of his misfortunes, while the mo&longs;t afflictive
&longs;en&longs;ations corroded in his bo&longs;om: But when he
had almo&longs;t bidden adieu to hope, when de&longs;pair &longs;eemed
to have taken po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of his mind, then was deliverence
neare&longs;t at hand, and he received a letter, informing
him he was to be exchanged with his family by
the very next cartel. They were accordingly removed
to Bo&longs;ton, and, in company with Mr. Littleton, put on
board a &longs;mall ve&longs;&longs;el, bearing a flag of truce, in which
they arrived, after a ten days pa&longs;&longs;age, &longs;afe at Hallifax.
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Here Mr. Littleton was immediately employed,
and drew on his agent for money to provide him&longs;elf
and Rebecca with nece&longs;&longs;aries; nor did he withhold
part of his little &longs;tore from Colonel Abthorpe, who
was really in nece&longs;&longs;itous circum&longs;tances. Mrs. Abthorpe's
malady had gained too much ground on her delicate
con&longs;titution ever to be repelled. She continued to decline,
and, in a few weeks after their arrival in Nova-Scotia,
&longs;he &longs;unk to eternal re&longs;t! Rebecca exerted herself
to comfort poor Sophia; but it was now become
ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary for them to part. Colonel Abthorpe
had not the means even of &longs;upporting him&longs;elf and daughter,
much le&longs;s an extra per&longs;on: Be&longs;ides, Rebecca was
eager to revi&longs;it England, and &longs;ee her mother; he therefore
furni&longs;hed her with recommendatory letters to several
Ladies in London. Her uncle provided her a passage,
and gave her an order on his agent for the &longs;mall remainder
of all his worldly wealth. She took an affectionate
leave of her dear Mi&longs;s Abthorpe, and embarked
for her native land. It &longs;eemed as though the elements
were as eager to convey our heroine in &longs;afety home, as
they had been perver&longs;e and tardy in bearing her from
thence; for on the twenty-eighth day from her leaving
Halifax, at the clo&longs;e of the evening, &longs;he found her&longs;elf
&longs;et down at the door of the Cro&longs;s-Keys Inn, in Gracechurch
&longs;treet, London. She had landed with a widow
lady and her maiden &longs;i&longs;ter (who came in the &longs;hip with
her) at Deal, and they had proceeded to town in a postchaise.
She remained at the inn with them that night,
and the next morning took a coach to &longs;eek the benevolent
friend of Mrs. Harris in the Borough. She was
removed, but Mrs. Harris her&longs;elf occupied the hou&longs;e:
Rebecca therefore, met a hearty welcome, and determined
to take up her abode with her till &longs;he could hear
from her mother, to whom &longs;he immediately wrote.
Anxiou&longs;ly did &longs;he count the time till &longs;he thought it
po&longs;&longs;ible to receive an an&longs;wer. At length the welcome
&longs;ound of a po&longs;tman's rap &longs;aluted her ears. She almo&longs;t
flew to the door. The letter required double po&longs;tage;
&longs;he paid it without he&longs;itation, and ha&longs;tily returned to
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the parlour to examine its contents; but as &longs;he approached
the candle, what were her feelings to di&longs;cover
it was her own letter returned, with the&longs;e words written
on the out&longs;ide:—
“Removed to London two years ago!”
“To London!” &longs;aid Rebecca; “but what part of
London? Good heavens! that I &longs;hould be in the &longs;ame
place with my mother, and yet unable to find her! But,
perhaps, I have no mother now,” continued &longs;he, mournfully:—
“She has been removed two years; alas! sorrow
may have levelled her with the du&longs;t long &longs;ince.”
She then endeavoured to recollect &longs;ome per&longs;on in her
native village, to whom &longs;he could addre&longs;s her&longs;elf, in
hopes of gaining information whether her mother had
mentioned what part of the town &longs;he intended to re&longs;ide
in. At length &longs;he recollected the parents of Ruth, who
had lived &longs;everal years &longs;ervant in the family, and was
with them when her father died. To them &longs;he immediately
wrote, and, as early as &longs;he could po&longs;&longs;ibly expect,
received the following an&longs;wer:
TO
MRS. REBECCA LITTLETON.
“My dear young mi&longs;tre&longs;s,
“This comes with father and mother's kind love to
you, letting you know that we are all main glad to hear
you are alive, and come home again to old England, for,
certain &longs;ure, we all thought you had been dead a long
while ago; &longs;o when father put on his &longs;pectacles, and
began to read your letter, I thought as how I &longs;hould
have &longs;ounded for joy; for indeed, and for &longs;arten, Mi&longs;s
Becky, I would walk a many long miles to &longs;ee your
&longs;weet face. Oh! dear, if you was but as rich, and as
happy as you are good, and as we all wi&longs;h you.—
“As to your mother, we are deadly afraid &longs;he has
made but a poor hand of marrying again, for old Serl
was but a &longs;habby kind of body, though he pretended to
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be &longs;o grand, and tried to make folks believe he was a
gentleman.
“To be &longs;ure they did fla&longs;h away about a month or
two after they were married, and Peg Serl had a mortal
fight of new cloaths, but for all &longs;he never looked
like a lady. Father &longs;aid as how you looked more like
one in a linen gown, and your nice curling hair without
powder, than &longs;he did in her &longs;ilks and &longs;attins, and her
hair pla&longs;tered up with grea&longs;e and flour; but after all
they did not hold out long. Serl did not u&longs;e your poor
fooli&longs;h mother well; he kept an impudent hu&longs;&longs;y almo&longs;t
under her no&longs;e, and u&longs;ed to be always a drinking and
&longs;otting, and &longs;o the &longs;inery all went away by littles and littles,
and then they got &longs;adly in debt, and at la&longs;t went off
to London, without letting any body know about it;
but cou&longs;in Dick was in London la&longs;t Martinmas twelve
months, and he &longs;aid he &longs;aw Mrs. Serl go into a hou&longs;e in
We&longs;tmin&longs;ter, but &longs;he looked main &longs;habby, and we never
&longs;ince heard nothing about her.
“Father bid me tell you, that he read in the newspaper
how that Sir George Worthy was married to a
great Lady; but father &longs;ays he could not have found a
more better Lady than your own &longs;weet &longs;elf, be the other
who &longs;he may, and we all thought as how, when Lady
Mary (ble&longs;s her dear name)! took you to live with her,
that we &longs;hould one day &longs;ee you come back to the village,
Lady of the Manor; but it can't be helped, marrying
and hanging they &longs;ay goes by fate. Mother and father
&longs;end their kind love and duty to you, wi&longs;hing you a
good rich hu&longs;band, and &longs;oon; and &longs;o no more at present
from your's to &longs;erve till death.
RUTH RUSSETT.”
When Rebecca had fini&longs;hed reading this letter her
mind was in a &longs;tate of anarchy, better imagined than
de&longs;cribed. She &longs;at with the letter open on the table before
her—her hands folded in each other—her eyes fixed
on vacancy.
“Well, what news, my dear,” &longs;aid Mrs. Harris, as
&longs;he came into the room, and, without particularly
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observing Rebecca, very lei&longs;urely &longs;tirred the fire as &longs;he &longs;poke
to her.”
“He is married,” replied Rebecca unconsciously.—
“Well, child, you knew that before, I thought.”
“No, indeed; this is the fir&longs;t I ever heard of it.”
“Why, how you talk!” &longs;aid Mrs. Harris, &longs;taring
at her; “to my certain knowledge &longs;he wrote you word
of it her&longs;elf.”
“Who wrote me word of it?”
“Why, your mother, child.”
“Oh! my mother,” cried Rebecca, endeavouring
to rally her &longs;cattered thoughts; then, pau&longs;ing for a
moment, “my poor mother,” continued &longs;he, bur&longs;ting
into tears, I fear I &longs;hall never &longs;ee her more.”
There was a wildne&longs;s in her looks, an incoherence in
her manner, that alarmed the compa&longs;&longs;ionate Mrs. Harris.
She drew a chair, and &longs;at down be&longs;ide her, took
both her hands in her's, pre&longs;&longs;ed them tenderly, but remained
&longs;ilent. This was a conduct more congenial to
the mind of Rebecca than the mo&longs;t eloquent harangue
could have been. She re&longs;ted her head on the bo&longs;om of
her friend, gave a free vent to her tears, and, by degrees,
regained a tolerable degree of compo&longs;ure.
CHAP. XXIX. VARIOUS SCENES.
When Rebecca had repelled the violence of her
fir&longs;t emotions, on finding Sir George was really
lo&longs;t to her, her mother's unfortunate marriage, and
its con&longs;equences recurred to her mind, &longs;he retired to bed,
but not to re&longs;t; &longs;leep was a &longs;tranger to her eyes, and
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her thoughts were &longs;o harra&longs;&longs;ed, that in the morning her
heavy eyes, pale lips, and burning hands, alarmed Mrs.
Harris.
“Come, come, child,” &longs;aid &longs;he, gently &longs;haking her,
“I mu&longs;t not &longs;ee you in this way; you are far from well
now, and if you go on fretting thus, I &longs;hall have you
quite laid up. You mu&longs;t rou&longs;e your&longs;elf, my dear; it is
very wrong to give way to &longs;orrow for misfortunes that
are irremediable.—Chance may, perhaps, di&longs;cover in
what part of the town your mother is; in the mean
time you mu&longs;t not neglect your own intere&longs;t. You
have never yet waited on any of the ladies to whom
Colonel Abthorpe gave you letters. I will have you
dre&longs;s your&longs;elf this very day, and go to &longs;ome of them.
Perhaps you may meet with a &longs;ituation where, by your
mind being con&longs;tantly occupied, you will have no time
to fret your&longs;elf to death, which I fore&longs;ee will be the ca&longs;e
if you are left to your&longs;elf.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Harris, I have no cau&longs;e to wi&longs;h for
life,” &longs;aid Rebecca, in a melancholy accent, “for, in
the whole world, I have no friend but you and my poor
uncle; him, perhaps, I &longs;hall never &longs;ee again, and you,
I fear, will grow weary of &longs;uch a child of &longs;orrow.”
“Now you are very unkind, Rebecca, to &longs;uppo&longs;e
me capable of neglecting you, or being wearied by your
complaints! No, my child, I feel for you every thing
that friend&longs;hip and affection can feel for a beloved object;
and it is becau&longs;e I think it nece&longs;&longs;ary to your health that
you &longs;hould be rou&longs;ed from this &longs;tate of inaction, that
makes me willing to be deprived of your &longs;ociety: Besides,
my dear, your mother may be, nay, in all probability,
is alive, and, at &longs;ome future period, you may
have it in your power to render her happy and comfortable
in her latter hours by your tenderne&longs;s and filial
love: For her &longs;ake, then, exert your natural good &longs;en&longs;e,
and bear your afflictions with becoming re&longs;ignation; it is
an indi&longs;pen&longs;able duty you owe to her, to your&longs;elf and to
your Creator.”
“Oh! Mrs. Harris,” cried Rebecca, “pardon my
petulance; I &longs;ee the friendly de&longs;ign of your advice, and
will exert my&longs;elf to follow it.”
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She now began to look over her letters, and determined
to wait that morning on Lady Winterton and
Mrs. Sackville, who lived both in a &longs;treet near Cavendi&longs;h
&longs;quare. She had two more letters, but they were to
ladies in the city.
Rebecca's dre&longs;s was plain and neat in the extreme,
yet there was a dignity in her per&longs;on and manner that
ever commanded re&longs;pect: She, therefore, on knocking
at Lord Winterton's door, was immediately u&longs;hered into
a parlour, and the &longs;ervant took the letter to his Lady.
The Lady was at her morning toilet. She ca&longs;t her
eyes ha&longs;tily over the letter.
“What kind of a per&longs;on brought this, Thomas?”
&longs;aid &longs;he to the man who waited ju&longs;t without the door
of the dre&longs;&longs;ing room.
“A very genteel young woman,” replied the man.
“Well, &longs;hew her into the breakfa&longs;t parlour, and tell
her I &longs;hall be with her pre&longs;ently. Is my Lord up?”
“Yes, my Lady, he is ju&longs;t gone down.”
“Well, go, do as I bid you.”
The man departed, and Rebecca was de&longs;ired to walk
into a parlour, where in his night gown and &longs;lippers,
&longs;at a per&longs;onage, the exact counterpart of Lord Ogleby
in the Clande&longs;tine Marriage.
Rebecca &longs;tarted, and was going to retire.
“Pray, Madam,” &longs;aid my Lord, ri&longs;ing, “do not
let me frighten you; my Lady will be here directly.
Thomas, a chair for the young Lady.”
Rebecca blu&longs;hed, court&longs;eyed, and took her &longs;eat.
My Lord eyed her attentively. She felt her confusion
increa&longs;e.
“She is a very fine girl,” thought his Lord&longs;hip; I
wonder who the devil &longs;he is.”
“The weather is very fine for the &longs;ea&longs;on, Madam,”
&longs;aid he, thinking it was incumbent upon him to &longs;ay
&longs;omething, though, in fact, it had rained ince&longs;&longs;antly
for a week.
“The &longs;un did break out for about an hour this morning;”
&longs;aid our heroine, half &longs;miling; “but he &longs;eems to
have withdrawn him&longs;elf again.”
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“He was con&longs;cious, Madam, that when your beauties
were vi&longs;ible to the admiring eyes of mortals, his
fainter glories could not be mi&longs;&longs;ed.”
“Heavens!” thought Rebecca, “what a ridiculous
old man, with his bomba&longs;tic compliment: However, I
am glad he is old; perhaps his Lady may want a per&longs;on
to read to her, or by cheerful a&longs;&longs;iduity, otherwi&longs;e amu&longs;e
her. She had, in her own mind, pictured Lady Winterton
as an elderly Lady, perhaps upwards of &longs;ixty
years old. In this family,” thought &longs;he, “&longs;hould I be
&longs;o happy as to be placed, I &longs;hall be free from the noi&longs;e
and impertinence &longs;o frequently to be met with in the families
of young people of quality. I dare &longs;ay they do
not keep much company; nay, perhaps, live in the
country above half the year. I wi&longs;h I may &longs;uit her Ladyship;
&longs;he certainly wants &longs;omebody, either for her&longs;elf
or &longs;ome of her freinds, by her de&longs;iring me to wait to &longs;ee
her.”
As Rebecca was indulging the&longs;e reflections the door
opened, and a Lady entered, in appearance not more
than twenty, habited in a very modi&longs;h undre&longs;s.
“Mi&longs;s Littleton, I pre&longs;ume,” &longs;aid &longs;he, advancing—
Rebecca court&longs;eyed.
“Colonel Abthorpe,” &longs;aid the Lady, motioning for
her to be again &longs;eated, “has had a very di&longs;agreeable
time in America. I dare &longs;ay you are happy to find
your&longs;elf in England again.”
“Sincerely &longs;o, Madam.”
“This thought Rebecca, is undoubtedly a daughter.”
“The Colonel mentions,” re&longs;umed the Lady, “that
you would wi&longs;h to engage as companion to an elderly
Lady, or as governe&longs;s to &longs;ome genteel family of children.”
“Either &longs;ituation would &longs;uit me, Madam,” &longs;aid
Rebecca; and if Lady Winterton could recommend
me—.”
“Lady Winterton wants a companion her&longs;elf,” &longs;aid
the Lady, &longs;miling; “but, perhaps, her age will be an
objection.”
“By no means, Madam; I &longs;hould give the preference
to an elderly Lady.”
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The Lady laughed; Rebecca blu&longs;hed, and feared &longs;he
had been guilty of &longs;ome impropriety.
“Why, my dear creature,” &longs;aid the Lady, “I am
afraid, then, that you and I &longs;hall never agree, though
Colonel Abthorpe &longs;eemed to think that you might prove
an acqui&longs;ition to me; but I am too young for you, &longs;o
mu&longs;t po&longs;itively turn you over to my Lord; he is more
adapted to your ta&longs;te.”
“Your Lady&longs;hip mu&longs;t pardon my ignorance,” &longs;aid
the trembling, blu&longs;hing Rebecca; “I really had no
idea.”
“Hear her! hear her! my dear Lord; &longs;he had no
idea that your &longs;enatorial wi&longs;dom could have for wife
&longs;uch an incon&longs;iderate rattle. I would bet a thou&longs;and
pounds &longs;he took you for my papa.”
“Your Lady&longs;hip is plea&longs;ed to di&longs;play your wit at the
expence of good manners,” &longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip.
“Oh! I humbly crave pardon,” cried &longs;he with a
mo&longs;t bewitching &longs;mile, “I meant no offence; you know
I cannot help other people's mi&longs;takes; for my own part
I think you infinitely charming; then twi&longs;ting one of
his grey locks round her beautiful fingers, &longs;he continued:
“The &longs;now on the hills, and the icicles pendant
from the leafle&longs;s trees in December, are in my eyes, to
the full as beautiful as the variegated fields and full-blown
hawthorn in May. I like every thing in its &longs;ea&longs;on, and
am moreover a great admirer of natural curio&longs;ities.”
“Impertinent!” &longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip, ri&longs;ing angrily,
and quitting the room.
“Well, now he is gone,” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip, drawing
her chair near Rebecca, “let us have a little &longs;erious
talk. You cannot &longs;uppo&longs;e that inclination led me to
give my hand to that ludicrous piece of antiquity:
No, my dear girl, I married him to &longs;erve a father,
whom next to heaven, I love, and to get from the
power of an ill-natured old maiden aunt, who had kept
me at &longs;chool for fear I &longs;hould mar her fortune, and despoil
her of all her lovers; for &longs;he had thirty thou&longs;and
pounds independent fortune, and that gave her wizened
face and &longs;keleton figure ten thou&longs;and charms; &longs;he or her
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fortune had admirers innumerable. I was always with
her at the holidays. My Lord &longs;aw me at the play.
Charmed with the idea of getting me married out of the
way, &longs;he made her will, bequeathing to me all her fortune,
in ca&longs;e &longs;he died without i&longs;&longs;ue.
“This was buzzed about—her lovers all for&longs;ook her—
and poor aunty died of a broken heart in the fifty
ninth year of her age! My father had married this Lady's
&longs;i&longs;ter. He was poor. She was the co-heire&longs;s of a
la ge fortune; but alas! &longs;he knew not that if &longs;he married
without her guardians con&longs;ent, the whole of her fortune
went to her elde&longs;t &longs;i&longs;ter.
“Di&longs;appointment and &longs;orrow &longs;oon put a period to
her exi&longs;tence. My father continued in poverty, but I
was committed to the care of my wealthy aunt.
“At that time I became acquainted with Lord Winterton,
my father's circum&longs;tances were dreadfully embarrassed.
My aunt would not advance a &longs;ingle guinea
to keep him from a gaol. I knew this marriage would
place him in affluence, and at the age of &longs;ixteen, gave
my hand, promi&longs;ed to love and obey, before my heart
knew what love was. I have been married now five
years; my temper is naturally cheerful, and I am an
enemy to thought; but I have that within me which
convinces me I have a heart alive to every delicate sensation
of di&longs;intere&longs;ted tenderne&longs;s.
“You may, perhaps, think it odd, that I am thus
open to a &longs;tranger; but Colonel Abthorpe, who was
the intimate friend of my father, has given you a character
as bade me to wi&longs;h to make an intere&longs;t in your
heart, that I may &longs;ay I have one bo&longs;om in which I can
repo&longs;e my &longs;orrows, one friend who will pity my frailties.”
Rebecca felt inclined to love this unfortunate young
creature from the fir&longs;t moment &longs;he beheld her. A very
few words &longs;erved to &longs;ettle every preliminary, and it was
agreed that the very next day &longs;he &longs;hould repair to her
new &longs;ituation.
As the time allowed her was &longs;o very &longs;hort, Rebecca
thought &longs;he would make u&longs;e of the re&longs;t of that day to
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deliver all the other letters; “for,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “it is
right that I &longs;hould wait on the&longs;e Ladies, though I am
&longs;ettled with Lady Winterton; they may at &longs;ome future
period be of &longs;ervice to me.” She accordingly repaired
to Mrs. Sackville's.
Being &longs;hewn into the drawing-room, a tall, meagre
figure pre&longs;ented it&longs;elf, who &longs;carcely deigned an inclination
of the head as &longs;he took the letter, and, waving her
hand, cried, “Sit down young woman.”
Having read the letter—“And &longs;o you have been in
America, child? cried the Lady, with the &longs;ame &longs;olemn
a&longs;pect. “Well, I dare &longs;ay, they are all in fine confusion
there; but let their di&longs;tre&longs;s be ever &longs;o great, it is
no more than they de&longs;erve, a parcel of rebels.”
“They may have been mi&longs;led,” cried Rebecca, an
enthu&longs;ia&longs;tic ardour animating her expre&longs;&longs;ive countenance;
“but they are in general a brave, benevolent &longs;et
of people.”
“'Tis a pity, as you are &longs;o partial, you had not remained
among&longs;t them.”
“I had no friends there, Madam, and wi&longs;hed to return
to my native country.”
“Nay, you have not many friends here,” &longs;aid the
Lady, with a &longs;arca&longs;tic &longs;mile, “according to the Colonel's
account.”
Rebecca's eyes filled with tears.—Mrs. Sackville continued:
“I do not know of any body at pre&longs;ent who
wants a young per&longs;on of your de&longs;cription.”
“You will pardon me, Madam,” &longs;aid Rebecca, for
this intru&longs;ion; “I did it merely in re&longs;pect to the generous
attention of Colonel Abthorpe, who furni&longs;hed me
with &longs;everal letters; but I have been &longs;o fortunate as to
be engaged this very morning as companion to Lady
Winterton.”
“'Tis very well,” &longs;aid Mrs. Sackville, to&longs;&longs;ing her
head: “Lady Winterton, I believe, wanted a convenient
friend, and very po&longs;&longs;ible you may &longs;uit her purpo&longs;e:
However young woman, do not &longs;ay you go into her
family without knowing what kind of a woman &longs;he is. I
have a very great regard for Lady Winterton, and
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&longs;hould be very &longs;orry to &longs;ay any thing to her disadvantage;
but all the world knows &longs;he married Lord Winterton
to hide an infamous intrigue with a low bred fellow
whom nobody knows. I thank heaven I have been
brought up to know the real value of virtue, and &longs;hould
be very &longs;orry to &longs;ee a decent looking body, like yourself,
companion to a woman of no principle: However,
you are to do as you plea&longs;e; I have given you my opinion,
and you mu&longs;t take the con&longs;equence of rejecting my
advice.” She then rang the bell, and Rebecca departed
with no very high opinion of her good nature, whatever
her other virtues might be.
She then repaired into the city, and delivered the
other two letters, but neither of the ladies were at
home; &longs;he therefore immediately proceeded to her
lodgings, and informed Mrs. Harris of the &longs;ucce&longs;s of
her excur&longs;ion. Mrs. Harris advi&longs;ed her not to be di&longs;heartened at the account Mrs. Sackville had given of
Lady Winterton; but &longs;hould &longs;he find her the unprincipled
woman &longs;he had been repre&longs;ented, to leave her immediately.
“Surely,” &longs;aid Rebecca, “&longs;he cannot be abandoned
to vice; if her countenance is the index of her mind.”
On the evening of this day our heroine received a
friendly letter from Mrs. Barton, who gave her a pressing
invitation to vi&longs;it her, and make her hou&longs;e her
home: but Rebecca dete&longs;ted a &longs;tate of dependence—
&longs;he therefore wrote a grateful return to this invitation,
and acquainted her with her engagement with Lady
Winterton.
C H A P. XXX. VARIETY STILL.
When Rebecca began to feel her&longs;elf &longs;ettled in
Wimpole-&longs;treet, &longs;he al&longs;o began to find that &longs;he
had entered on an entire new life.—Lady Winterton was
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extremely gay, &longs;aw a great deal of company, and lived
in one continued round of dre&longs;&longs;ing, vi&longs;iting, and public
amu&longs;ements. It was in vain for our heroine to object to
accompanying her; &longs;he had taken a peculiar fancy to
her &longs;ociety, and was never happy without her. Lord
Winterton loved gaiety, and an o&longs;tentatious di&longs;play of
grandeur as well as his Lady: She was therefore never
abridged in her plea&longs;ures, were they ever &longs;o extravagant,
and the old Peer thought him&longs;elf amply repaid for the
mo&longs;t &longs;plendid entertainments, or elegant pre&longs;ents, by
the &longs;miles and good humour of his Lady, who, in &longs;pite
of her caprice and &longs;atyrical wit, he tenderly loved.
One morning Rebecca had accompanied her Lady to
an auction, where they had &longs;carcely been &longs;eated ten minutes
before a very elegant young man approached them,
and being introduced to her as a Mr. Savage, a particular
friend of her Lady&longs;hip's, attached him&longs;elf to them
the whole morning.—Rebecca did not ob&longs;erve any thing
uncommon in his attentions to Lady Winterton, but
&longs;he thought, as he handed her Lady&longs;hip to her carriage,
&longs;he &longs;aw him put a folded paper into her hand, which &longs;he
immediately conveyed into her pocket.
As it drew towards evening the Lady &longs;eemed va&longs;tly
unea&longs;y, e&longs;pecially when &longs;he found her Lord meant to
&longs;pend his evening at home: however, after &longs;he had taken
her tea, &longs;he ordered her chariot.
“Am I not then to have the plea&longs;ure of your company,
Fanny?” &longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip. “I propo&longs;ed supping
at home, becau&longs;e I heard you were di&longs;engaged.”
“Oh! my Lord, I &longs;hall be home again in about two
hours. Mi&longs;s Littleton and I are only going to call on
a &longs;ick friend of her's.”
Rebecca &longs;tared. Lady Winterton gave her a supplicating
look, and, &longs;urpri&longs;ed as &longs;he was, &longs;he remained silent.
“If Mi&longs;s, Littleton wi&longs;hes to vi&longs;it her friends,” &longs;aid
my Lord, “the chariot is certainly at her &longs;ervice; but,
&longs;urely, my dear Fanny, you are not obliged to accompany
her.”
“Indeed but I am! and I am &longs;en&longs;ible the Lady will
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take it very unkind were I to neglect going. Don't you
think &longs;he would, Rebecca.”
“I think,” &longs;aid Rebecca, timidly, “we may both
venture to defer our vi&longs;it till the morning, as my lord is
&longs;o kind as to &longs;pend the evening at home.”
“Ah! that is your good nature, my dear; you
would rather offend your friend, than lead me to disoblige
my hu&longs;band; but &longs;uppo&longs;e we &longs;ettle it this way: I
will go and &longs;ee how the lady is, and you &longs;hall &longs;tay and
engage my Lord at piquet. I &longs;hall ju&longs;t call at my mantua-maker's
in my way home, and be with you again
before &longs;upper.”
“Your Lady&longs;hip will pardon me,” &longs;aid Rebecca,
giving her a penetrating look: “If you are re&longs;olved to
go, you &longs;hall not have to &longs;ay I am remi&longs;s in the duty
I owe my friend. I am ready to attend you, Madam,”
ri&longs;ing, and ringing for her cloak.
“For heaven's &longs;ake! Lady Winterton,” &longs;aid Rebecca,
as the chariot drove from the door, “what is the
meaning of all this? You have di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed me beyond
mea&longs;ure, by calling on me to a&longs;&longs;ert a fal&longs;hood.”
“Now you are angry with me, Rebecca,” &longs;aid the
Lady, taking her hand; “but pray think no more
about it: I could contrive no other means to get away
from that inqui&longs;itive old man, without telling him where
I was going.”
“And &longs;urely your Lady&longs;hip does not wi&longs;h to go any
where that would be offen&longs;ive to your hu&longs;band.”
“Oh! my dear girl, you will never forgive me, you
are &longs;uch a prudent creature your&longs;elf; but I am going to
meet —, though, believe me, it &longs;hall be the la&longs;t
time. I am going to meet —, and take a la&longs;t
farewell of Savage.”
“By your Lady&longs;hip's promi&longs;ing it &longs;hall be the la&longs;t
time, I am led to think it is not the fir&longs;t. I could have
excu&longs;ed your making me acce&longs;&longs;ary to &longs;uch an affair:
However, I &longs;hall take care not to be liable to be drawn
in a &longs;econd time.”
“Ah! Mi&longs;s Littleton, you have no compa&longs;&longs;ion for
a &longs;u&longs;ceptible heart.”
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“Yes, Lady Winterton, I have, an infinite deal; I
feel for you &longs;incerely, if when your per&longs;on is united to
one, your heart is in the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of another. Your
feelings, Madam, are involuntary; your actions are by
no means &longs;o: I am &longs;en&longs;ible you may not be able to conquer
the weakne&longs;s of your heart; but you certainly
may avoid throwing your&longs;elf into &longs;ituations which may
lead to criminality.”
The chariot &longs;topped—Lady Winterton alighted—
and Rebecca followed her &longs;ilently into a parlour,
where Savage was eagerly expecting her.
The en&longs;uing &longs;cene, to which our heroine was a witness,
though it awakened all her compa&longs;&longs;ion for the lovers,
who in years, &longs;entiments and manner, &longs;eemed &longs;o
&longs;uitable to each other, it gave her but an indifferent
opinion of her Lady's prudence. Savage, from his conversation,
appeared a man of &longs;trict honour; he did
not &longs;eem to entertain an idea to the injury of his mi&longs;tre&longs;s; but that unfortunate woman, hurried on by the
violence of her pa&longs;&longs;ion, made a thou&longs;and di&longs;coveries of
her unbounded affections, which, with a man of le&longs;s integrity,
might have precipitated her into everla&longs;ting
infamy.
The promi&longs;e of returning to &longs;upper was entirely forgot.
Rebecca reminded her of the hour: &longs;he heard
her not, and the clock &longs;truck twelve before &longs;he could
bring her&longs;elf to leave her lover.
During their ride home Rebecca &longs;poke not a &longs;yllable
except one or two laconic an&longs;wers to her Lady's questions.
She followed her into the hall, and, taking a
candle from a &longs;ervant, wi&longs;hed her a good night, and ran
ha&longs;tily up &longs;tairs, leaving Lady Winterton to make her
excu&longs;es to her hu&longs;band for her breach of promi&longs;e.
The next morning, as &longs;he was ri&longs;ing, one of the maids
brought her the following note.
“For heaven's &longs;ake! my dear Rebecca, do not contradict
whatever you may hear me &longs;ay at breakfa&longs;t, as
you value the peace of
F. WINTERTON.”
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Rebecca threw the note into the fire, and went down
&longs;tairs. Her Lord and Lady were already in the parlour.
“And how do find your&longs;elf this morning, my dear?”
&longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip: “I vow you quite frightened me la&longs;t
night.”
“Are you often taken in &longs;uch a &longs;trange manner?”
&longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip, with a look of concern.
“No, indeed, my Lord; I was taken quite by surprise
la&longs;t night, and found my&longs;elf very painfully affected.
I never was taken that way before, but I have felt
a return of the di&longs;order this morning.”
“Indeed!” cried her Lady&longs;hip, vi&longs;ibly alarmed.
“Yes, Madam; but as change of air may be of service
to me, and your Lady&longs;hip &longs;eems terrified on my account,
I &longs;hall beg leave to retire to a friend's I have
&longs;ome few miles from town. I &longs;hall go directly after
breakfa&longs;t, and will &longs;end to-morrow for my trunks.”
“You do not mean to leave us, I hope?”
“Yes, Madam; I fee; it impo&longs;&longs;ible for me to remain
with you any longer.” Lady Winterton bur&longs;t into tears.
“Nay, Mi&longs;s Littleton,” &longs;aid his Lord&longs;hip, “you
mu&longs;t not leave us; my poor Fanny will break her heart.”
It was to no purpo&longs;e for the Lady to weep, or her
hu&longs;band entreat: Rebecca remained inexorable, till
Lord Winterton leaving them, his Lady earne&longs;tly entreated
her to forgive what was pa&longs;t, and &longs;he would never
&longs;ee Savage again.
“Do not leave me, Rebecca,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “you are my
guardian angel; without you I &longs;hall be inevitably lo&longs;t!”
This argument prevailed, and Rebecca con&longs;ented to
&longs;tay, in hopes of drawing her Lady from her unfortunate
attachment. The winter was now entirely supplauted
by the gay-robed &longs;pring, and our heroine began to
&longs;igh for retirement, &longs;ilver &longs;treams, and &longs;hady groves.
Lady Winterton, to oblige her, propo&longs;ed &longs;pending a
few weeks at Chi&longs;wick, where they had an elegant &longs;eat.
It was a charming evening in the beginning of June;
the ruddy &longs;treaks of the parting &longs;un-beams had given
place to &longs;ober grey; the moon with &longs;ilver cre&longs;cent &longs;hed a
feeble light, and the &longs;tars, by imperceptible degrees,
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appeared in the blue expance of heaven, till all was one
continued &longs;cene of radiant glory. A nightingale perched
on a thorn, was tuning her melancholy pipe, and the
zephyrs pa&longs;&longs;ed gently over a long canal, wa&longs;ting on
their wings the di&longs;tant &longs;ound of the tinkling &longs;heep bell,
and the ru&longs;tic &longs;hepherd's whi&longs;tle.
Rebecca had left her Lady in an alcove at the bottom
of the garden, and wandered into the plea&longs;ure ground.
The beauty of the &longs;urrounding &longs;cene had given a
&longs;oft &longs;erenity to her mind, and &longs;he &longs;at down to indulge
reflections, which, if not ab&longs;olutely plea&longs;ant, were far
from painful.
She had not &longs;at long before &longs;he ob&longs;erved two men
gliding among the trees, and proceeding as it were towards
the garden. At fir&longs;t &longs;he felt rather terri&longs;ied, but
the idea of Savage &longs;triking her, &longs;he ha&longs;tened toward the
place where &longs;he had left her Lady. She had hardly got
half way before &longs;he felt her&longs;elf &longs;uddenly &longs;eized by a person,
who &longs;oftly bid her not be alarmed, he only meant
to prevent her di&longs;turbing an agreeable tete a tete, to
which a friend of his had been invited, and which
he was determined &longs;hould not be interrupted by her.
Rebecca trembled exce&longs;&longs;ively, for, by the voice, and
what little &longs;he could di&longs;cern of his features, &longs;he discovered
the per&longs;on who held her to be no other than Lord
O&longs;&longs;iter.
“Whoever your friend is,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “he can have
no bu&longs;ine&longs;s here. Unhand me, Sir, or I will alarm the
hou&longs;e.”
“You mu&longs;t cry pretty loud, then, my dear, for you
are a good di&longs;tance from it; but &longs;tay, have I not &longs;een
your face before? Yes, by heavens!”
At that moment, a loud &longs;hriek from the alcove, and
a cla&longs;thing of &longs;words, made him relinqui&longs;h his hold, and
run toward the place from whence the &longs;ound proceeded.
Rebecca followed as fa&longs;t as her trembling limbs would
permit; but what a &longs;cene pre&longs;ented it&longs;elf to her view.
Savage on his knees, &longs;upporting the bleeding, and apparently
lifele&longs;s body of Lady Winterton, and O&longs;&longs;iter
&longs;truggling to wre&longs;t a &longs;word from the hands of her Lord,
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who foamed with rage, and threatened in&longs;tant death to
the betrayer of his honour!
“Infamous wretch!” &longs;aid the enraged hu&longs;band, when
he beheld our heroine; “this is your doings, you contrived
and winked at their meetings, and mo&longs;t conveniently
left your vile friend to entertain her lover, while
you whiled away your time with that di&longs;grace to nobility!
Begone—leave my hou&longs;e this night—thou pe&longs;t to
&longs;ociety! I have long been informed of your &longs;candalous
proceedings, but would not believe till occular demonstration
left me nothing to doubt.”
Terrified and di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed as Rebecca was, &longs;he could not
but wi&longs;h to &longs;tay to afford what relief was in her power
to her Lady, but this was denied her. She had a&longs;&longs;i&longs;ted
Savage to bathe her temples with hart&longs;horn, and &longs;aw her
open her eyes, when the &longs;ervants entered, took her in
their arms, and bore her to the hou&longs;e, where Rebecca
was forbade to enter, and any &longs;ervant who &longs;hould dare
to afford her &longs;helter, threatened with in&longs;tant di&longs;mi&longs;&longs;ion.
“What now is to become of me!” &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;inking
on the ground as the door was &longs;hut again&longs;t her: “What
next will be the fate of the wretched Rebecca.”
“Love, affluence, and plea&longs;ure,” &longs;aid Lord O&longs;&longs;iter,
endeavouring to rai&longs;e her.
“Say rather death and infamy, my Lord; my reputation
is wounded—my peace of mind de&longs;troyed. Oh!
that my heart would break, and let me re&longs;t forever!”
“Re&longs;t in my arms,” &longs;aid he, rudely embracing her.
She &longs;hrieked.
“Forbear, my Lord,” &longs;aid Savage, approaching;
“this lady has been the friend of my adored Fanny,
and no one &longs;hall in&longs;ult her with impunity.”
“Your humble &longs;ervant,” cried O&longs;&longs;iter; “I understand
you, and have done, only give me leave to inform
you, that this pretty imaculate piece of prudery, about
four years &longs;ince, was in a ready furni&longs;hed hou&longs;e of my
providing, from whence &longs;he thought fit to elope, and
has, I make no doubt, &longs;een a great deal of life &longs;ince that
period.”
Rebecca could hear no more—a &longs;udden chillne&longs;s ran
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through her veins—&longs;he re&longs;pired with difficulty—her
head grew giddy—and &longs;he &longs;unk into in&longs;en&longs;ibility. When
&longs;he recovered, recollection retained but faint traces of
the pa&longs;t &longs;cenes; it &longs;eemed like a di&longs;turbed dream.—
“Where am I?” &longs;aid &longs;he.—Lord O&longs;&longs;iter approached
the bed-&longs;ide—“You are in &longs;afety, my angel,” &longs;aid he,
“only compo&longs;e your &longs;pirits, and nothing &longs;hall be omitted
that can make you happy.” She turned her head
from him, wept, but could not an&longs;wer.
“You mu&longs;t not di&longs;turb her,” &longs;aid a medical gentleman,
who had been called in. “Quiet and re&longs;t is absolutely
nece&longs;&longs;ary to pre&longs;erve her life.”
“Exert your utmo&longs;t &longs;kill, doctor,” &longs;aid O&longs;&longs;iter, “to
&longs;ave her, and we will be guided entirely by your directions.”
“Then leave her to the care of the nur&longs;e to-night,
and do not attempt to &longs;ee her before noon to-morrow.”
O&longs;&longs;iter ki&longs;&longs;ed her hand, bowed, and retired.
Rebecca heard the door &longs;hut: &longs;he rai&longs;ed her head to
look at the doctor, and perceived, to her great joy, he
was a grave, decent looking man. She made &longs;ome excuse
to &longs;end the nur&longs;e out of the room; then taking
both the doctor's hands in her's, cried, “Oh! good
Sir, if you have any compa&longs;&longs;ion in your nature, &longs;hew it
now to a poor di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed orphan and &longs;ave her.”
“My dear child,” &longs;aid he, “do not alarm your&longs;elf,
you are not in any immediate danger.”
“Oh! Sir, you mi&longs;take me, it is not death I fear, it
is di&longs;honour. Alas! I know not where I am; but I
fear I am entirely in the power of a man who will sacrifice
me to his unhallowed pa&longs;&longs;ion.”
“Then you did not come with him voluntarily?”
“No! no! heaven knows I did not; I was in a &longs;tate
of in&longs;en&longs;ibility.”
An intere&longs;ting conver&longs;ation now took place—the doctor
was convinced of Rebecca's innocence, and bribing
the nur&longs;e to a&longs;&longs;i&longs;t, about twelve o'clock they helped the
poor &longs;ufferer to get on her clothes, &longs;upported her down
&longs;tairs, and carried her in triumph to his own hou&longs;e.
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C H A P. XXXI. RETROSPECTION AND NEW CHARACTERS.
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Though Lady Winterton had &longs;olemnly promi&longs;ed
Rebecca to hold no farther corre&longs;pondence with
Savage, her love overpowered every good re&longs;olution, and
&longs;he had &longs;een him &longs;everal times previous to their leaving
London; for what man of gallantry can refu&longs;e the request
of a woman he tenderly loves, though rigid honour
bids him fly her &longs;ociety. Fanny, the lovely unfortunate
Fanny, entreated another interview; it was impossible
to avoid it, but each one was meant to be the
la&longs;t.
Lord O&longs;&longs;ter was by no means the bo&longs;om friend of
Savage, but he had, by accident, become ma&longs;ter of this
&longs;ecret, and was therefore reque&longs;ted to accompany him
to Chi&longs;wick, where he had enjoyed &longs;everal interviews
with Lady Winterton before the la&longs;t fatal one.
Lord Winterton's valet had ob&longs;erved his Lady's evening
walks, and made the important di&longs;covery that &longs;he
had a lover. He informed his Lord, from that moment
her &longs;teps were watched, &longs;he was di&longs;covered in the alcove—
Savage at her feet—her cheek re&longs;ted on his forehead—
her hand upon his &longs;houlder, and tears were streaming
from her eyes.
“Turn, villain,” &longs;aid Lord Winterton, “and desend
your&longs;elf.” Savage aro&longs;e, and drew his &longs;word; the
frantic Lady threw her arms about him, and received
her hu&longs;band's &longs;word in her own bo&longs;om. She &longs;ell, and
O&longs;&longs;iter at that moment entering, prevented the death of
her lover, who would certainly have fallen a victim to
the hu&longs;band's rage, had not timely a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance arrived.
The gentle innocent Rebecca was involved in her
Lady's crime; &longs;he was &longs;uppo&longs;ed acce&longs;&longs;ary to the interviews,
and forbade to enter the hou&longs;e, when &longs;he fainted
as was mentioned in the preceding chapter. O&longs;&longs;iter
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represented her to Savage as a woman of a very light character,
and he, unwilling to quit a place where he
might hope to hear whether his Fanny &longs;till lived, &longs;uffered
that de&longs;igning nobleman to carry her to the chai&longs;e which
waited for them, and convey her to the neare&longs;t inn.
Here he ordered her to be put to bed, &longs;ent for a doctor,
and, having &longs;trongly recommended her to his care, retired,
after a &longs;light &longs;upper, to bed, rejoicing in an accident
which had again put in his power a woman
whom, though he had given up all thoughts of gaining,
he could never entirely forget.
How great then was his &longs;urpri&longs;e when, enquiring
for her the next morning, he found doctor, nur&longs;e and
patient, all ab&longs;conded. He repaired to the doctor's
hou&longs;e, but could not obtain admittance. He cur&longs;ed
the meddling fellow in his heart, vowed revenge again&longs;t
Rebecca, and &longs;et off for London.
In the regular cheerful family of Dr. Ryland our heroine
&longs;oon recovered her health, and in a great mea&longs;ure
her &longs;pirits. She made enquiry concerning the fate of
her Lady, and learned that, though &longs;he had recovered
from her wound, &longs;he laboured under a very ill &longs;tate of
health, which, they feared, would terminate in a decline.
Rebecca gave a &longs;igh to her hard fate, and wished
&longs;he might conquer her pa&longs;&longs;ion, and be prepared to
meet that peace in another world &longs;he had failed of finding
in this.
Dr. Ryland was a truly benevolent man, but he had
a large family, and no great degree of practice, it was
therefore a thing not to be expected that our heroine
could remain with them long, and in the poor &longs;ituation
&longs;he then was, without money or cloaths, &longs;he could not
think of returning to incumber Mrs. Harris. She had
informed Mrs. Ryland that &longs;he wi&longs;hed to get a place in
&longs;ome genteel family, where &longs;he could render her&longs;elf useful
without much hard labour; that Lady enquired
among her friends, and learned that the Lady of a neighbouring
ju&longs;tice wanted a young per&longs;on to get up her
&longs;mall linen, make her caps, bonnets, gowns, &c. and
occa&longs;ionally to take care of the family when the Lady
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was out. Rebecca joyfully waited on Mrs. Penure; the
kind Mrs. Ryland accompanied her, gave her &longs;uch a
character as &longs;he de&longs;erved, and had the plea&longs;ure to find
&longs;he entirely &longs;uited the Lady's plan. The &longs;alary was
&longs;mall, but Rebecca had but few wants to &longs;upply; to be
neat was now all &longs;he required, indeed it was all &longs;he could
henceforth expect. The doctor advanced a few guineas
to provide her a change of clothes, for &longs;he had &longs;ent
repeatedly, without effect, for her trunk from Lord Winterton's,
and, in the cour&longs;e of a week, from the time &longs;he
waited on the Lady, Rebecca became an inmate in the
family of the wor&longs;hipful Ju&longs;tice Penure.
Jacob Penure had, from a very low &longs;tation in a reputable
trade&longs;man's family, rai&longs;ed him&longs;elf, by indefatigable
indu&longs;try, to the confidence of his ma&longs;ter, and a &longs;hare
in the bu&longs;ine&longs;s, at the age of twenty-three. The fair
Mi&longs;s Abigail Prune, who had, in the younger part of
her life, &longs;erved &longs;everal ladies in quality of waiting woman,
but who now kept her brother's hou&longs;e, ca&longs;t on him
the eyes of affection. Mi&longs;s Abigail was to be &longs;ure rather
pa&longs;t her prime, having &longs;een forty &longs;ea&longs;ons revolve, and
noted their various change, without the lea&longs;t hope of
ever changing her own maidenly condition to the more
honourable one of wife.
Mr. Jacob was a comely young man. She reviewed
her own countenance in the gla&longs;s; &longs;he could not but perceive
the traces made by the hand of time. She was
above the middle &longs;ize, extremely thin, and had a &longs;hape,
not “&longs;mall by degrees, and beautifully le&longs;s;” but &longs;o exactly
&longs;traight, that it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to perceive the lea&longs;t
difference between the bottom and the top, and in&longs;tead
of that roundne&longs;s, which con&longs;titutes elegance in the form
of a woman, her wai&longs;t was as perfectly flat as though &longs;he
had been pre&longs;&longs;ed between two boards. Her arms were
long; her hands large, hard and boney; her face was
round, but it was that kind of roundne&longs;s that expre&longs;&longs;es
in&longs;ignificance. The &longs;mall remains of teeth &longs;he po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed
might have been termed beautiful in &longs;ome parts of the
world, for they were of jetty hue, and from her hollow
&longs;ockets, over which could be di&longs;cerned &longs;carcely the trace
of brows, twinkled two extremely &longs;mall black eyes.
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The tip of her diminutive no&longs;e was elevated.
Her complexion might have rivalled the tints of the
mo&longs;t beautiful orange lilly.
Such was the per&longs;on of Mi&longs;s Abigail. We will leave
her accompli&longs;hments and temper to &longs;peak for them&longs;elves.
Mr. Jacob Penure knew his own intere&longs;t too well to
think of &longs;lighting the maiden's advances. She had five
hundred pounds in her own po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, the accumulated
&longs;avings of near twenty years &longs;ervitude; be&longs;ides, her brother
had no children, and he had much money. Mr.
Prune was far from di&longs;plea&longs;ed with his &longs;i&longs;ter's choice.
Penure was an attentive, indu&longs;trious young man; he
made him equal partner with him&longs;elf, and in about fifteen
years they found them&longs;elves in po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of a very
hand&longs;ome fortune. About this time the old gentleman
died. All his po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ions devolved to his &longs;i&longs;ter, and Penure
re&longs;olved, though &longs;orely again&longs;t his wife's opinion,
to leave trade, and retire into the country. Here he
was cho&longs;en ju&longs;tice of the peace, and by his integrity and
gentlene&longs;s in the execution of his office, gained the love
of all who knew him.
He was a humane friendly character, but he &longs;tood in
fear of his wife.
The morning after Rebecca's arrival, the breakfa&longs;t
things removed, (for &longs;he was to eat at their table,) Mrs.
Penure de&longs;ired our heroine to accompany her up &longs;tairs.
“I am mightily glad,” &longs;aid the lady, &longs;itting down
by a large old-fa&longs;hioned ca&longs;e of drawers, and taking an
enormous bunch of keys from her pocket, “I am mightily
glad to have met with a young per&longs;on like you, who
can make me up a few &longs;mart things. I love to be genteel,
and wear as good things as my neighbours; but
really it is &longs;o expen&longs;ive to have any thing done at the milliners,
and if one gets any journey-woman to come home,
they always a&longs;k for as much again &longs;tuff as they want, and
&longs;teal half of it. Now I do hate to be cheated: I don't
mind giving away a bit of ribband or gauze that is left,
but it provokes me to have it taken away &longs;lyly.”
During this harangue, &longs;he had pulled from her drawers
an immen&longs;e quantity of yellow wa&longs;hed gauze, old
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mu&longs;lin, and thread lace, that bore the &longs;tronge&longs;t marks
of antiquity. She admired the cap our heroine had on,
and wi&longs;hed to have one made like it; but among the
medley of trumpery &longs;he had di&longs;played, Rebecca could
not &longs;elect any thing fit for the purpo&longs;e: be&longs;ides, our heroine's
head, though neat and plain, &longs;till retained an air
of fa&longs;hion. Mrs. Penure's lank black hair was combed
in the exacte&longs;t manner over a roll, and drawn up as tight
behind as po&longs;&longs;ible; how then could the &longs;ame cap &longs;uit
both?—However, an attempt mu&longs;t be made. The Lady
a&longs;&longs;ured Rebecca, that her lace, mu&longs;lin, &c. were
very valuable, and in&longs;i&longs;ted on not only one but &longs;everal
caps being produced from tho&longs;e materials; at the &longs;ame
time &longs;he opened a cabinet, in which were arranged, rolled
in the neate&longs;t manner round cards, every ribband &longs;he
had ever had in her po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion. “See, young woman,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, exultingly, “here are variety of ribbands, take
your choice, let my caps be trimmed hand&longs;omely, but
don't wa&longs;te any; I hate wa&longs;te, &longs;o, if you can avoid it,
don't cut them.” Rebecca could not &longs;uppre&longs;s a &longs;mile at
the &longs;olemn manner in which this trea&longs;ury of old-fa&longs;hioned
dirty, faded ribbands was committed to her charge.
However, &longs;he promi&longs;ed to exert her abilities to plea&longs;e,
and was beginning to form a cap, but her mi&longs;tre&longs;s had
not yet done with her. “I &longs;uppo&longs;e,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “you
will want linings and wire; be&longs;ides, you will not be all
day making two or three caps: I want a bonnet or two
made, and my be&longs;t cloak fre&longs;h trimmed.”
“I am afraid I &longs;hall not be able to do all in one day,
Madam.”
“Well, you mu&longs;t do as much as you can, child, don't
be idle, I hate idle people. I hope you don't love reading.”
Rebecca he&longs;itated; &longs;he would not utter a fal&longs;ehood.
“I think it an agreeable amu&longs;ement, but I will never
neglect my bu&longs;ine&longs;s.”
“No, indeed, I hope not, reading is the ruination of
all young people. I never read a book in my life but
my Bible, and the Hou&longs;e-keeper's A&longs;&longs;i&longs;tant. I was always
&longs;tudying to make the mo&longs;t of my time and how to
&longs;ave or earn a penny.”
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A fre&longs;h cargo was now di&longs;played to the wondering eyes
of Rebecca, of old mode, yellow, white &longs;ar&longs;enet, skeleton
wires, pa&longs;te board and blond lace, out of which &longs;he
was de&longs;ired to produce a &longs;mart bonnet or two.”
“It is impo&longs;&longs;ible, madam,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “utterly impossible;
the bonnets worn now are &longs;o different from
what were worn ten years &longs;ince. You mu&longs;t, indeed,
Madam, afford your&longs;elf new materials to make a genteel
bonnet.” Her arguments were vain; all &longs;he could obtain
was a yard of mode, and four yards of riband, while
Mrs. Penure declared &longs;he was leading her into extravagance,
and that the bonnet mu&longs;t la&longs;t her &longs;even years.
It is impo&longs;&longs;ible to give a direct idea of our heroine's
&longs;en&longs;ations, when this mi&longs;erable woman, out of oftentation,
di&longs;played to her the trea&longs;ures of her wardrobe.
Here were gowns, petticoats, nay, even &longs;tockings and
linen, which &longs;he could no longer mend or wear, carefully
laid by her! Her narrow &longs;oul could not even expand
it&longs;elf to give to others what &longs;he could no longer u&longs;e her&longs;elf
the very wire that came out of her old caps was twisted,
kept and put in a box devoted for that purpo&longs;e; hats
that bore the date of twenty years by their fa&longs;hion; old
&longs;tays, &longs;hoes and gloves, all were pre&longs;erved, though scarcely
worth acceptance by the poore&longs;t per&longs;on.
Her hou&longs;e-keeping was of a piece with the re&longs;t; every
thing was under lock and key; bread and &longs;mall beer
were the only things to which the &longs;ervants had free access;
her table, it is true, was well &longs;upplied, but it was
oftentation, not liberality, occa&longs;ioned it. Her female
vi&longs;itors were &longs;eldom a&longs;ked to take more than one gla&longs;s
of wine after dinner, for when &longs;he had taken half a gla&longs;s
her&longs;elf &longs;he would return the &longs;topper to the decanter, and
cry, “I never allow my&longs;elf more,” This was the &longs;ignal,
and the wine was immediately removed, when &longs;he would
&longs;ay, “but perhaps, ma'am, you would have liked another
gla&longs;s?”
It cannot be expected, in &longs;uch a family, that our heroine
could be happy; &longs;he endeavoured to be content,
but the effort was vain. Mr. Penure &longs;aw &longs;he was far superior
to the &longs;tation &longs;he was in; he pitied her, but he
could do no more, without incurring the anger of a
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woman whom he had been accu&longs;tomed to obey, and dreaded
to offend.
It happened one afternoon, when his Lady-wife was
gone to pay a vi&longs;it of ceremony (a thing not very customary
with him) the ju&longs;tice took his tea at home. Rebecca
was &longs;ummoned to the parlour to make it; but,
alas! Rebecca could produce only a tea &longs;poonful of
black tea, and a very &longs;mall quantity of &longs;ugar.
“Why, &longs;ure, child, you are not allowanced in tea
and &longs;ugar?” &longs;aid he, with a look of di&longs;plea&longs;ure.
“There is plenty for me, Sir,” &longs;aid &longs;he, affecting a
&longs;mile, and—.
“By heavens!” &longs;aid the ju&longs;tice, &longs;tamping with passion,
“you &longs;hall make no excu&longs;e for her; confound the
&longs;tingy narrow-hearted—.
“Hold, Sir, I be&longs;eech you,” cried Rebecca; “you
quite terrify me!”
“I am &longs;orry for it, child,” &longs;aid he; “but to think
my wife &longs;hould dare treat you thus, you who are every
way her &longs;uperior, and who, if I mi&longs;take not, was born
to be &longs;erved by others, not be a &longs;ervant your&longs;elf!”
“You are mi&longs;taken, Sir,” &longs;aid our heroine, her eyes
falling as &longs;he &longs;poke: “Indeed you are mi&longs;taken. I
am a poor orphan, without friends or connexions, and
have only to lament that my education has been &longs;uperior
to my fate. My birth was humble, and, I tru&longs;t, my
heart is humble; but my feelings are &longs;ometimes more
than I can well bear.
The ju&longs;tice rang the bell; he wi&longs;hed to hide his emotions.
“Get me &longs;ome tea and &longs;ugar,” &longs;aid he, giving
half a guinea to a &longs;ervant who entered. He then drew
his chair toward our heroine, took one of her hands,
and told her “he felt inclined to prove him&longs;elf her
friend, if &longs;he would direct by what means to do it.”
“Be not alarmed, my lovely girl,” &longs;aid he, “though
my eyes acknowledge you beautiful, my heart only feels
for you as for a &longs;i&longs;ter, or a daughter. If you can venture
to make me your friend, confide in me, and tru&longs;t to
my hone&longs;t intention; I will &longs;erve you to the utmo&longs;t of
my power.”
During tea Rebecca had di&longs;clo&longs;ed to her ma&longs;ter the
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chief incidents of her life, veiling only tho&longs;e which concerned
Sir George. Time had pa&longs;&longs;ed unob&longs;erved. The
ju&longs;tice had drawn forth his pur&longs;e, and putting ten guinias
into the hands of Rebecca, entreated her to accept
them as the gift of a father. She &longs;trenuou&longs;ly oppo&longs;ed
the liberal donation. He had taken her hand, and closing
it with the money within it, held it while he was
&longs;peaking, when the door opened, and Mrs. Penure &longs;tood
before them. The ju&longs;tice &longs;tarted, and dropped Rebecca's
hand. The money fell to the floor.
The rage of Mrs. Penure inflamed her features, and
&longs;hot from her eyes; &longs;he could not &longs;peak, but &longs;hrieking
in a terrific manner flew at Rebecca, and would have
made her feel the weight of her tremenduous hand, had
not her hu&longs;band &longs;tepped between them. She recovered
her &longs;peech.
“Profligate wretch,” &longs;aid &longs;he “vile, ungenerous villain!
is it thus my tenderne&longs;s and conde&longs;cen&longs;ion, in taking
you to my bed, is re-paid? Is my money to be
&longs;quandered on your painted Jezabels that you bring into
my hou&longs;e to di&longs;honor me? Oh! my unfortunate lot!
Mu&longs;t I beggarred by an ungrateful wretch? Yes, I &longs;ee
all my property will be wa&longs;ted, and I &longs;hall go to the work-house.”
Here her tears broke out, and what with sobbing
and &longs;creaming &longs;he became unintelligible. Rebecca
would not &longs;top to vindicate her&longs;elf. She retired to her
room in &longs;ilence, and &longs;oon after received a me&longs;&longs;age from
her mi&longs;tre&longs;s to leave the hou&longs;e, who, at the &longs;ame time,
made her ill behaviour a plea for not paying her wages,
though &longs;he had been in the family above four months.
As &longs;he was going out at the gate to &longs;eek the London
coach, one of the &longs;ervants put a folded paper in her hand.
On opening it &longs;he &longs;aw not the ten guineas, but a ten
pound note, with the&longs;e words:
“I know you have not been paid; accept this as a
&longs;mall return for your &longs;ervices. God ble&longs;s you, and
make you happy.
J. Penure.”
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C H A P. XXXII. OLD ACQUAINTANCE RENEWED.
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The coach &longs;at Rebecca down in Piccadilly; it was
quite dark. She thought it was be&longs;t to go immediately
to Mrs. Harris's, and determined to take a coach
for that purpo&longs;e. As &longs;he &longs;tood waiting for her trunk to
be taken from the boot, two genteel young men pa&longs;&longs;ed
her, one of which turned round, and regarding her attentively,
“it is her, by heavens!” &longs;aid he, and flew towards
her.—Rebecca turned &longs;uddenly round, and discovered
the features of Sir George Worthy.
“My angelic Rebecca!” &longs;aid he, folding her in his
arms, regardle&longs;s of the place where they &longs;tood, “do I
once more behold you? Do I indeed cla&longs;p you to my
brea&longs;t, or is it an illu&longs;ion?”
“Sir George,” &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;truggling to free her&longs;elf
from his embrace, “I rejoice to &longs;ee you well; but I
know not what I have done to de&longs;erve this in&longs;ult.”
“Who &longs;hall dare in&longs;ult you, my adorable girl? I
have found you after &longs;uch a long &longs;eparation, when I
thought you lo&longs;t for ever, and we will never part
again.”
“For heaven's &longs;ake let me go Sir George. Why
am I thus detained? Are you not married?”
By this time a crowd had gathered round them. An
old &longs;ailor &longs;eeing a woman in di&longs;tre&longs;s ru&longs;hed forward, and
&longs;truck Sir George a blow that made him relinqui&longs;h his
hold. Rebecca &longs;prang from him, and forgetful of her
trunk, ran ha&longs;tily down St. James's-&longs;treet. When &longs;he
had reached the bottom &longs;he &longs;topped to recover her
breath, and then proceeded &longs;lowly down Pall-Mall.
A poor mi&longs;erable looking object, who&longs;e emaciated
frame was but thinly &longs;heltered by a tattered mode cloak
for gown &longs;he had none, from nocturnal damps, supporing
her feeble &longs;teps by holding by the iron rails before
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one of the hou&longs;es, in a weak, tremulous voice entreated
charity.
Rebecca never turned a&longs;ide from the &longs;upplications of
mi&longs;ery. She &longs;topped, and put her hand in her pocket.
They &longs;tood immediately under two large lamps.
“Merciful heaven!” cried the poor mendicant, laying
her cold hand on the one Rebecca had extended
with relief, and gazing ardently at her—“Rebecca!
my child! do you not know me?”
Our heroine looked intently on the pale vi&longs;age of the
object before her; mi&longs;ery and &longs;ickne&longs;s had &longs;omewhat altered
it, but &longs;he &longs;aw it was her mother. The feelings
of a daughter ru&longs;hed impetuou&longs;ly over her heart. She
&longs;unk on her knees upon the pavement, and, cla&longs;ping her
parent in her arms, exclaimed, “Oh, my mother! my
dear di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed mother!” and bur&longs;t into an agony of tears.
When the tumult of their feelings were &longs;ub&longs;ided, Rebecca
thought of calling a coach, but where were they
to drive? She could not think of taking her mother to
Mrs. Harris's; they therefore drove to a &longs;treet in Westminster,
where Mrs. Serl had formerly lodged, and were
fortunate enough to meet with an apartment empty.
Here their mutual embraces and endearments were again
renewed: Rebecca wept for joy at having found a parent
who&longs;e future life &longs;he would endeavour to make happy,
and Mrs. Serl &longs;hed tears of contrition for having once
treated &longs;o unworthily &longs;o good a daughter.
She informed Rebecca that after they left Lincolnshire
Serl commenced game&longs;ter, &longs;harper and &longs;windler;
that his daughter went on the town, and turned an abandoned
profligate; and that, at la&longs;t overwhelmed with poverty
and di&longs;grace, Serl him&longs;elf had died in the FlectPrison,
leaving her in the greate&longs;t di&longs;tre&longs;s, having neither
clothes, money, or friends. Her annuity had been long
&longs;ince &longs;old, and &longs;he mu&longs;t have peri&longs;hed, had &longs;he not providentially
met with her daughter.
When Rebecca viewed her mother's tattered garments,
and thought of getting her more comfortable clothing,
her own trunk recurred to her memory. “I hope
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it is not lo&longs;t,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “and it is lucky what little
money I po&longs;&longs;e&longs;s is in my pocket.”
Her mother informed her that there was &longs;ome decent
apparel at a pawn broker's in the neighbourhood, and
Rebecca, having received in&longs;tructions in what manner to
proceed, went out in order to get it; but what was her
a&longs;toni&longs;hment, on opening the parcel when &longs;he had
brought it home, to &longs;ee a gown made of a piece of India
chints, which &longs;he remembered to have had in her
trunk when it was &longs;ent into Lincoln&longs;hire, with a mu&longs;lin
apron, and &longs;everal other things, which &longs;he equally knew
to be her own.
“Gracious heaven!” &longs;aid &longs;he, dropping the parcel
from her hands, and fixing her eyes on her mother.
“What is the matter, my dear?” &longs;aid Mrs. Serl;
“that was a gown given me by poor Serl; it had been
bought for his fir&longs;t wife.”
“It was mine,” &longs;aid Rebecca, in a firm voice. “If
he told you it was his, he told a fal&longs;hood; it was in the
trunk which I lo&longs;t four years ago.”
An explanation now took place, which convinced
Mrs. Serl what a villain &longs;he had cho&longs;en to &longs;ucceed the
worthy Mr. Littleton; but our heroine would not &longs;uffer
her to make any painful retro&longs;pects, or to accu&longs;e her&longs;elf.
She poured the &longs;weet balm of affectionate con&longs;olation into
the bo&longs;om of her mother. She forgot her own forrows,
and &longs;eemed to have no with but to render her parent
the like forgetful of every pa&longs;t di&longs;agreeable event.
The next morning &longs;he repaired to the hou&longs;e where the
&longs;tage had &longs;topped in Piccadilly to enquire for her trunk.
“The old gentleman took it away with him,” &longs;aid
one of the waiters, “and paid all expences;” for Rebecca,
in her fright the preceding night, had not paid her
fare to town.
“What old gentleman?” &longs;aid &longs;he, &longs;urpri&longs;ed.
“Why, the old gentleman who knocked the young
man down that was &longs;o rude to you. He read the directions
on the trunk when it was taken from the boot,
&longs;wore he was your uncle, and in&longs;i&longs;ted on having it; as
he offered to pay all expences the coachman did not refuse,
and both he and the young man went off together
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to &longs;earch for you; but returned in about an hour, and
left word, if you &longs;hould call this morning, for me to tell
you, you might hear of your trunk at number 46, Bedford-Square.”
“That is Lord O&longs;&longs;iter's,” &longs;aid Rebecca, &longs;carcely
able to re&longs;pire.
“And, moreover,” &longs;aid the man, “the young gentleman
told me, if I could find where you was gone, or
could bring him to a &longs;ight of you, he would give me ten
guineas, and &longs;o, &longs;eeing as how you are here, we had better
take a coach and go together.”
“No,” &longs;aid Rebecca, &longs;truggling to &longs;uppre&longs;s her emotions,
“No, I cannot go ju&longs;t now; in the afternoon it
will be more convenient. I will ju&longs;t &longs;tep back to my
lodgings, and return to you again by two o'clock.”
The man was &longs;atisfied. Rebecca tripped out of the
hou&longs;e, called a coach, and drove home. During her little
ride her mind dwelt on the &longs;ingularity of the circumstance.
She had ju&longs;t heard the man, who re&longs;cued her
from Sir George's in&longs;ults, had gone away with him, had
taken her trunk, and directed her to find it at Lord Ossiter's.
It was an inexplicable riddle; he had called himself
her uncle, but &longs;he knew &longs;he had but one uncle and
he was abroad in the navy. She was certainly fortunate
in e&longs;caping a &longs;nare, which &longs;he had no doubt was
laid to trepan her. Lord O&longs;&longs;iter had, perhaps, represented
her to Sir George as an abandoned creature, devoid
of virtue or principal; and that gentleman, once &longs;o esteemed,
&longs;o re&longs;pected, was now con&longs;idered as one, who,
believing her lo&longs;t to honour, would join his Lord&longs;hip
in any &longs;tratagem to decoy her into his power.
Full of the&longs;e ideas, &longs;he told her mother &longs;he would
immeadiately remove from the apartments &longs;he then occupied,
le&longs;t &longs;he &longs;hould have been watched home, and
Sir George might be directed where to find her.
“Alas! my dear mother,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “I am &longs;en&longs;ible
of my own weakne&longs;s. I hope I love virtue as well as
woman ought; but I know I love Sir George, and
though he is the hu&longs;band of another; though rea&longs;on, religon,
honour, all plead again&longs;t my pa&longs;&longs;ion, &longs;till, &longs;till it
is &longs;o engraven on my heart, that to eradicate it, I feel
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is totally impo&longs;&longs;ible. Can I then an&longs;wer for my own
fortitude? I fear not: I might &longs;ink under powerful
temptations; let me then fulfil my duty, and avoid
them.”
Her mother approved and &longs;trengthened the&longs;e resolutions,
and, having but very few things to put together,
in le&longs;s than two hours they were in a new lodging
near Millbank, Wettmin&longs;ter. Here Rebecca &longs;unk under
the fatigue of body, and agitation of mind &longs;he had undergone,
and a fever en&longs;ued, which brought her almo&longs;t
to the brink of the grave. The &longs;trength of a good constitution
&longs;oon combated the violence of the di&longs;order, and
&longs;he began to recover her &longs;trength, when her mother was
attacked with one more alarming; this was the smallpox,
which, to a per&longs;on of her years, was expected to
be fatal.
Ten pounds was all the worldly wealth Rebecca possessed
when &longs;he met her mother; but ten pounds in a
hou&longs;e of &longs;ickne&longs;s would la&longs;t but a very &longs;hort time; &longs;he,
therefore on examining the contents of her pur&longs;e, when
her mother &longs;ickened, found it contained but fifteen shillings,
and there was a doctor's bill to pay. It was al&longs;o
nece&longs;&longs;ary his attendance &longs;hould be continued to Mrs.
Serl, who&longs;e life was in imminent danger. During the
fir&longs;t ten days of her mother's illne&longs;s Rebecca hardly left
her bed&longs;ide, denying her&longs;elf almo&longs;t the nece&longs;&longs;aries of
life, in order to lengthen out her little &longs;tore; but on the
fourteenth day &longs;he was pronounced out of danger, and
that good nur&longs;ing, and nouri&longs;hing food, was all that was
nece&longs;&longs;ary to her re&longs;toration.
“Alas!” &longs;aid Rebecca, “I have no po&longs;&longs;ible means
of procuring tho&longs;e nece&longs;&longs;ary comforts.” She was stooping,
as &longs;he &longs;poke, to take &longs;ome gruel from the fire, the
pin of her handkercheif dropped out, and the picture of
Lady Mary &longs;wung forward again&longs;t her hand.
Rebecca gazed at it mournfully.—“True,” &longs;aid
&longs;he, “it is &longs;et in gold, and might afford a temporary
&longs;upply; but, then, is it not the portrait of my adored
benefactre&longs;s? And does it not al&longs;o contain the &longs;emblance
of the only man I ever did or ever can love? Duty
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alas! what right have I to talk of love? Is he not already
married? And were he not, have I not given a
&longs;olemn vow never to li&longs;ten to his addre&longs;&longs;es? Fooli&longs;h,
fooli&longs;h, Rebecca! why do&longs;t thou nouri&longs;h a pa&longs;&longs;ion
that mu&longs;t be forever hopele&longs;s?”
She was returning the picture to her bo&longs;om, when it
&longs;truck her &longs;he might, perhaps, get the minature carefully
taken out, and di&longs;po&longs;e of the gold in which they were
&longs;et. “If &longs;o,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “I may comfort my mother,
and yet pre&longs;erve the re&longs;pect due to the portrait of Lady
Mary.”
CHAP. XXXIII. THE BENEVOLENT LADY.
Rebecca was &longs;o plea&longs;ed with the project of rai&longs;ing
a &longs;upply of money from the gold, that &longs;he told her
mother &longs;he would go out for half an hour and breathe the
fre&longs;h air, as &longs;he found the confinement &longs;he had &longs;uffered
rather impeded her returning &longs;trength. When &longs;he was
out &longs;he thought, by extending her walk, &longs;he &longs;hould feel
her&longs;elf refre&longs;hed, &longs;he therefore cro&longs;&longs;ed the Park, and going
out at Spring Gardens Gate, &longs;topped at an eminent
gold&longs;mith's in Cock&longs;pur-&longs;treet, and reque&longs;ted him to
take the pictures carefully out, and purcha&longs;e the &longs;etting.
The man had ju&longs;t taken it in his hand, and was admiring
the neatne&longs;s of the workman&longs;hip, and the curious contrivance
of the &longs;pring, when a chariot &longs;topped at the
door, and a beautiful young Lady immediately entered.
The ma&longs;ter of the &longs;hop held the picture open in his
hand while he received the Lady's orders concerning a
pair of bracelets. The portrait caught her eye: “Ble&longs;s
me,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “Pray who&longs;e is that? it is &longs;o like a person
that I know.”—
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“It belongs to that young woman, Madam; &longs;he
wi&longs;hes to &longs;ell the gold without the pictures.”
The Lady had not before ob&longs;erved Rebecca; but now
her pale, but beautiful intere&longs;ting countenance &longs;truck
her.
“It is a pity to have them un&longs;et,” &longs;aid &longs;he. Will
you part with it altogether? I will give you twice the
value of the gold.”
“I cannot, indeed, part with the portraits, Madam;
the one is a much valued friend long &longs;ince dead, and the
other—.” A pale vermillion cro&longs;&longs;ed her cheek, and &longs;he
he&longs;itated.
“Aye, that other!” &longs;aid the Lady; “I never &longs;aw
any thing more like than that is to a particular friend
of mine; and even the features of the Lady &longs;eem familiar
to me.”
“Will you buy the gold, Sir?” &longs;aid Rebecca.
“No,” cried the Lady, “he &longs;hall not buy it. If
you will not part with it altogether to me for twice its
value, (I am certain you will pardon the remark) but
one motive could lead you to wi&longs;h to di&longs;po&longs;e of the setting.”
As &longs;he was &longs;peaking &longs;he had taken &longs;everal guineas
from her pur&longs;e, and wrapped them in paper. “You
&longs;hall call upon me, if you plea&longs;e, to-morrow morning,”
continued &longs;he, pre&longs;enting our heroine with a card, under
which &longs;he &longs;lipped into her hand the paper of money, and
without waiting for an an&longs;wer, &longs;he tripped out of the
&longs;hop. Rebecca was motionle&longs;s; nor did &longs;he think of
looking at the card till the ma&longs;ter of the &longs;hop returned
from &longs;eeing the Lady to her carriage.
“I am glad you were &longs;o lucky,” &longs;aid he, “as to excite
the notice of that Lady; &longs;he is an amiable woman,
and may prove a valuable friend.”
“Lady Chatterton,” &longs;aid Rebecca, reading the card.
“Yes,” continued he, “&longs;he was Lady Eleanor Harcourt,
only daughter of the late Earl. She has been
married about three years. A mo&longs;t extraordinary circumstance
happened about that time; &longs;he had been from
a child de&longs;igned for her cou&longs;in, Sir George—.”
Ju&longs;t then a carriage drew up, &longs;everal Ladies of fa&longs;hion
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demanded the jeweller's attention, and Rebecca, thinking
her mother might want her attendance, left the &longs;hop,
not without wi&longs;hing &longs;he could have heard what Sir
George the Lady was de&longs;igned for, as that was a name
&longs;he never heard mentioned, but &longs;he felt intere&longs;ted, and
found it impo&longs;&longs;ible to &longs;uppre&longs;s the emotions of her heart.
Rebecca was truly grateful for the unexpected bounty
&longs;he had received, and returned home fully re&longs;olved to
wait on the benevolent Lady, and return her tho&longs;e
thanks her a&longs;toni&longs;hment had prevented her expre&longs;&longs;ing at
the time: But on the morrow her mother was &longs;o very
ill it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to leave her, and for &longs;everal succeeding
days it rained continually: However, at length
a fine morning pre&longs;ented, Mrs. Serl was greatly recovered,
and Rebecca, dre&longs;&longs;ing her&longs;elf as neatly as the very
limited &longs;tate of her wardrobe would allow, proceeded to
St. Alban's-&longs;treet.
On knocking at the door &longs;he was informed, that
Lady Chatterton was gone out for a morning ride; but
that, if &longs;he was the young woman her Lady&longs;hip had met
at the jeweller's, &longs;he was de&longs;ired to wait till the Lady
returned.
Rebecca was plea&longs;ed with this little mark of attention,
and was &longs;hewn into a &longs;mall parlour, where a child,
of about eleven years old was practi&longs;ing on the pianoforte.
The child &longs;topped on her entrance, and, &longs;tarting
from her &longs;eat, advanced a few &longs;teps towards Rebecca.
“Do not let me interrupt you Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid our heroine.
“Oh! but I am &longs;ure I cannot play, ma'am,” &longs;aid the
child: “Indeed I cannot; I had much rather look at
you. And pray ma'am, do not think me rude if I a&longs;k
you if your name is not Rebecca Littleton?”
“That is my name,” &longs;aid the a&longs;toni&longs;hed Rebecca.
“I knew, I was &longs;ure, it could be no other,” &longs;aid the
child, throwing her arms round our heroine's neck;
“but you have forgot me—you do not remember your
little Lucy O&longs;&longs;iter.”
“Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter!”
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“Yes, your own little girl that loveed you &longs;o dearly,
and almo&longs;t broke her poor heart when you went away:
But you &longs;hall not go away again, Rebecca; my dear
aunt will not let you go: I know the will not.”
“What aunt, my dear young Lady?”
“Why aunt Eleanor: I live with aunt Eleanor now.
Papa and mamma are gone to France, and brothers are
both at &longs;chool; &longs;o uncle George.—Oh! dear Rebecca,
I have got &longs;uch a deal to tell you about uncle George.—
I am &longs;ure aunt will be very glad to &longs;ee you, uncle and &longs;he
are gone out together.”
“Good heaven!” thought Rebecca, “then I am in
the very hou&longs;e I mo&longs;t wi&longs;hed to avoid. No wonder her
Lady&longs;hip &longs;aid &longs;he knew the picture; but now is my only
time for avoiding a painful interview with Sir George,
who has, no doubt, though it did not &longs;trike me before,
&longs;ucceeded to his uncle's title on his marriage with his
cou&longs;in. Honour, gratitude, all unite to urge me immediately
to quit this place. Lady Chatterton has extended
toward me the hand of benevolence; nor will I repay
her by throwing my&longs;elf in the way of her hu&longs;band, who,
from his behaviour when we met accidentally, has convinced
me he &longs;till retains an improper regard for me.”
“As my Lady is not at home, my dear Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “I will call again another time.”
“Well, then, let it be &longs;oon, my own Rebecca; &longs;ay
you will come again to-morrow.”
Rebecca tenderly embraced the affectionate child, and
having given her a kind of half promi&longs;e to &longs;ee her &longs;oon
again, ha&longs;tily left the hou&longs;e.
“Every thing,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “con&longs;pires again&longs;t me. I
never find a friend but &longs;ome cro&longs;s accident prevents my
reaping any benefit from their kindne&longs;s: misfortunes
&longs;eem to be the only portion allotted for me in this world,
and patience and re&longs;ignation my only comforters. But I
will nor complain; I have been unexpectedly relieved
when almo&longs;t in de&longs;pair, when every earthly friend had
apparently for&longs;aken me; and, I tru&longs;t, I &longs;hall be supported
by the &longs;ame beneficient Power, as long as he
thinks proper to lay the burthen of life upon me.”
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As &longs;he walked along, indulging the&longs;e reflections, it
&longs;truck her that &longs;he would go to her uncle's agent, and
enquire when he had heard from him, and whether the
old gentleman was &longs;oon expected in England. But
when &longs;he got to the place where he u&longs;ed to re&longs;ide, &longs;he
found he was removed to a di&longs;tant part of the town;
nor could the people, who then occupied the hou&longs;e,
give her a proper direction to find him.
“Now every &longs;tay is gone,” &longs;aid Rebecca, as &longs;he
pur&longs;ued her way homeward; “but, I thank God, I
feel my health returning, and, I &longs;hall be enabled to gain,
by indu&longs;try at lea&longs;t, the nece&longs;&longs;aries of life for my mother
and &longs;elf.” Alas! poor Rebecca, &longs;he little knew how
&longs;mall a portion of the world's wealth fell to the &longs;hare of
the humble, the indu&longs;trious female, who by continued
labour can &longs;carcely gain &longs;ufficient to &longs;upply, with the
coar&longs;e&longs;t food, the wants of nature, or to &longs;hield with decent
clothing her limbs from the inclemency of the weather.
While the daughters of vice and folly are &longs;urrounded
with luxuries, the &longs;uperfluous part of which would cheer
the hearts of the children of mi&longs;ery; but, Oh! heavenly
reflection, the humble, virtuous female, has a &longs;weet
cordial comforter within that diffu&longs;es a plea&longs;ure over her
&longs;oul, which the thoughtle&longs;s votary of folly can never
experience.
Ble&longs;t &longs;pirit of content that pre&longs;ides over the innocent
brea&longs;t! How enviable are thy tran&longs;ports! Thou can&longs;t
&longs;weeten the coar&longs;e &longs;canty meal of poverty, and &longs;hed quiet
&longs;lumbers on the pri&longs;oner's eye! The accute&longs;t pang the
heart can feel where thou ha&longs;t taken up thine abode, is
when it beholds its fallen &longs;i&longs;ters purcha&longs;ing the delu&longs;ive
plea&longs;ures of wealth with the lo&longs;s of all that can render
them lovely or amiable.
Rebecca was poor, but her heart was void of discontent.
She enquired for employment, and was &longs;o happy
as to procure &longs;ome; but the fruits of her almo&longs;t ince&longs;&longs;ant
indu&longs;try were very inadequate to the wants of her&longs;elf and
mother, who revived but very &longs;lowly from the bed of
&longs;ickne&longs;s.
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CHAP. XXXIV. WE GO BACK TO THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER.
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When Sir George Worthy left England, in order,
if po&longs;&longs;ible, to bani&longs;h from his remembrance Rebecca
Littleton, he had, previous to his departure, vi&longs;ited
his cou&longs;in Eleanor, and informed her of the &longs;tate of his
heart.
“I e&longs;teem you, Eleanor,” &longs;aid he; “but I do not love
you as a man ought to love a woman he takes for his
wife. To be candid, my heart is in the po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion of another.”
“And to be equally candid, dear George,” replied
the lady, “mine is exactly in the &longs;ame predicament; yet
I do not know how we &longs;hall avoid making each other
wretched, for my father po&longs;itively &longs;wears I &longs;hall have you
or be a beggar, and my poor &longs;wain has neither name or
fortune to recommend him.”
“I mean to be ab&longs;ent two years,” &longs;aid Sir George,
“that will give you a &longs;hort reprieve. I will write to
you often, and if at any time I can be of &longs;ervice to the
man of your choice, do not he&longs;itate to command me.”
In the Earl of Chatterton's family was a young man
nearly of the &longs;ame age with Eleanor; he was a foundling,
and had been brought up and educated by his lord&longs;hip in
the &longs;tyle of a gentleman, and when at a proper age presented
with a commi&longs;&longs;ion.
Oakly, which was the name the Earl had given him
from having found him one morning at the foot of an
oak in his park, wrapped in a mantle, but without any
other cloathing. Oakly was a youth of &longs;trict honour,
and his heart overflowed with gratitude to his benefactor,
whom he con&longs;idered in the light of a father; but in&longs;pite
of honour, gratitude, and innumerable re&longs;olutions to the
contrary, he loved Lady Eleanor, &longs;ome how or other accidentally
acquainted her with his pa&longs;&longs;ion, and found himself
beloved in return.
Things were in this &longs;ituation when Sir George left
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England, and in this &longs;ituation remained when a letter from
Eleanor &longs;ummoned him to return, when he had been
&longs;carcely ab&longs;ent eighteen months. The Earl was ill, felt
him&longs;elf daily declining, and wi&longs;hed to &longs;ee his daughter
married before he died. He obeyed the &longs;ummons in
ha&longs;te.
Oakly was almo&longs;t di&longs;tracted. “But what am I,”
&longs;aid he, “that I &longs;hould a&longs;pire to the hand of my patron's
daughter, an out ca&longs;t, a foundling, without family
or name, dependant on his bounty even for the
bread I eat? No, I will not impede her union with a
man every way her equal, who po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;es honour and
goodne&longs;s of heart, and will do ju&longs;tice to her virtues. I
will leave England,” &longs;aid he.
Unable to deliberate on a &longs;ubject where inclination
and rea&longs;on were &longs;o much at variance, he flew to the Earl,
and &longs;olicited an exchange into a regiment de&longs;tined to
America. “Let me gather laurels in the field of battle,
my dear Sir,” &longs;aid he.
The Earl loved him tenderly. He pre&longs;&longs;ed to know
the cau&longs;e of this unexpected application, and refu&longs;ed to
exert his intere&longs;t in Oakly's behalf till he was informed.
“I love a woman of family and fortune,” &longs;aid he,
“I have &longs;ome rea&longs;on to think I am not indifferent to her,
and, knowing my own unfortunate &longs;ituation, I wi&longs;h to
avoid doing a di&longs;honourable action.”
“You will never act di&longs;honourable, Oakly,” &longs;aid the
Earl, “and this conduct is a proof of it. Who is the
Lady?—inform me —I will &longs;peak to her friends
in your favour, and give you a genteel fortune.”
“Oh! my generous benefactor,” cried Oakly, “indeed
it is impo&longs;&longs;ible; her parents never will con&longs;ent. I
dare not name her.”
“Come, come, you are too diffident: I am &longs;ure there
is no family, of the lea&longs;t di&longs;cernment, but would think
them&longs;elves honoured by the alliance. Come, who is the
paragon?”
“You mu&longs;t pardon me, Sir; I &longs;hould entirely forfeit
your friend&longs;hip.”
“You will undoubtedly forfeit it by this unkind
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reserve. I am willing and able to &longs;erve you, Oakly; but
if, by your ob&longs;tinacy, you put it out of my power —.”
“Do not call it ob&longs;tinacy. By heavens! Oakly, I
love you as my own child; only tell me how to make
you happy, and I will do it, though it co&longs;t half I am
po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of.”
“Ah! my dear Sir, I fear, when you know —.”
“Know what?” cried the Earl, impatiently.
“That I love Lady Eleanor.”
“Love Eleanor!” cried he, emphatically; then your
&longs;uit is indeed hopele&longs;s.”
Oakly's heart &longs;unk within him.
“You are indeed a noble boy, though,” &longs;aid the
Earl, “and from this moment I hold my&longs;elf bound, by
the mo&longs;t &longs;acred oath, never to &longs;uffer you to know the
want of a friend. Eleanor has, from her childhood,
been de&longs;igned for her cou&longs;in George; indeed, my late
&longs;i&longs;ter and my&longs;elf entered into a &longs;olemn engagement, that
which ever outlived the other &longs;hould &longs;ee this union completed;
that now is my ta&longs;k. If it is ab&longs;olately necessary
to your peace to leave England, I will procure
you the de&longs;ired exchange; but I could wi&longs;h, my dear
Oakly, you would conquer your pa&longs;&longs;ion, and remain
with us.”
“That is not in my power, Sir;” he replied, “to
be employed in actual &longs;ervice is now the only wi&longs;h I
have to make.”
The Earl did not mention this conver&longs;ation to either
his daughter or Sir George, and Oakly carefully avoided
an interview with Eleanor till he was really appointed
to a company of foot that was expected to go for New-York
in the cour&longs;e of a few weeks. He then, having
made the nece&longs;&longs;ary preparations for joining his regiment,
took a tender leave of her, a&longs;&longs;uring her it was his hope
to en&longs;ure her felicity by bani&longs;hing from her fight a
wretch who had &longs;tepped between her and her duty, and
who would rather die than have it &longs;aid he had ba&longs;ely stolen
the daughter of the man to whom he owed every enjoyment,
nay, almo&longs;t life it&longs;elf.
“'Tis all in vain,” &longs;aid Eleanor, “I can never love
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Sir George; nor do I think even the commands of a father
I love and revere can lead me to give him my hand.”
However, the preparations for the intended nuptials
&longs;till proceeded. Sir George beheld them with total indifference.
He had u&longs;ed every endeavour to di&longs;cover
Rebecca: he had, by various &longs;tratagems, traced her to
her embarkation with Mi&longs;s Abthorpe for America, and
was informed the ve&longs;&longs;el in which they went was reported
to have been lo&longs;t, and all on board peri&longs;hed.
“Rebecca lo&longs;t!” He remembered his mother's fir&longs;t
wi&longs;h to &longs;ee Lady Eleanor his wife. “She is an amiable
woman,” &longs;aid he, “and though I cannot love again
with the emhu&longs;ia&longs;tic ardour I experienced for Rebecca,
I will, if &longs;he voluntarily accepts my hand, exert my&longs;elf
to make her happy. She, like my&longs;elf, has experienced
di&longs;appointment in her tendere&longs;t hopes; we can at lea&longs;t
con&longs;ole each other, and make up in friend&longs;hip what we
want in love.”
Oakly had taken leave of his friends at Windfor, and
was on his journey for Port&longs;mouth. Sir George was in
town with the lawyers, and the Earl and Lady Eleanor
at breakfa&longs;t in the library, when a &longs;ervant informed them
that a clergyman reque&longs;ted to &longs;peak with them.—He
was de&longs;ired to walk up.
“I am come, my Lord,” &longs;aid he, &longs;eating him&longs;elf
with evident embarra&longs;&longs;ment, “from a poor woman in
this place, who, it is imagined, is at the point of death.
From &longs;omething &longs;he has imparted to me, I imagine it
is ab&longs;olutely nece&longs;&longs;ary for your Lord&longs;hip to pay her a visit,
as &longs;he has a circum&longs;tance to relate which nearly concerns
your family. She is likewife in di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed circumstances,
and may, while &longs;he lives, which will not be
long, require your benevolent a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance.”
The Earl never wanted to be twice told of an object
of compa&longs;&longs;ion.—
“We will go directly,” &longs;aid he, and ringing the bell,
ordered the carriage. Lady Eleanor and the clergyman
accompanied him.
At a &longs;mall cottage, on the extremity of the fore&longs;t, the
carriage &longs;topped, and the clergyman led the way into an
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inner apartment, where, on a bed, expre&longs;&longs;ive of poverty
in the extreme, lay a poor emaciated figure, in the la&longs;t
&longs;tage of a con&longs;umption.
“Here is the Earl and his daughter, Mrs. Watts,”
&longs;aid he.
“They are very good,” replied &longs;he, “to come and
&longs;ee &longs;uch a wretch as I am. Oh! Sir, Oh! my Lady,
you will never forgive me; but I cannot die in peace till
I have informed you that, through mine and my &longs;i&longs;ter's
wickedne&longs;s, you have nouri&longs;hed an impo&longs;tor in your families,
and that the real heir to the late Sir George Worthy's
e&longs;ta e is either totally lo&longs;t, or may be a poor wanderer,
de&longs;titute of bread.”
The Earl and Eleanor &longs;at in mute a&longs;toni&longs;hment, gazing
at each other.—The clergyman exhorted the penitent
to proceed.
“My elde&longs;t &longs;i&longs;ter,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “was employed by the
late Lady Worthy to wet-nur&longs;e her &longs;on, and was left at
Twickenham with the child, while her Lady&longs;hip made
a &longs;hort tour to Flanders. During her Lady's ab&longs;ence my
&longs;i&longs;ter came to Wind&longs;or to me, bringing ma&longs;ter with her.
I at that time gave &longs;uck to a &longs;weet little boy exactly of
the &longs;ame age, who&longs;e mother had died at my hou&longs;e but a
month before. My &longs;i&longs;ter entreated me to take care of
ma&longs;ter Worthy for a day, while &longs;he went to town. I
con&longs;ented, and was proud of my charge. In the afternoon
(he was a&longs;leep in the cradle) I left a little girl to
rock him, and &longs;tepped about half a mile to purcha&longs;e
&longs;omething for &longs;upper again&longs;t my &longs;i&longs;ter came home. I
made what ha&longs;te I could, but on my return, what was
my terror, to &longs;ee the cradle empty, and my girl at play
in the &longs;treet? However, I did not make any noi&longs;e, or
alarm the neighbourhood; but enquiring of the girl who
had been there, &longs;he &longs;aid only two gyp&longs;ey women begging.
It immediately occurred to me, that the gold
bells and coral, together with the co&longs;tly lace cap and jam
the child had on, had been the incitement to this theft.
When my &longs;i&longs;ter returned &longs;he was almo&longs;t di&longs;tracted—her
character would be gone—&longs;he &longs;hould never dare face
her Lady again! That evening we could think of
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nothing in order to deprecate the &longs;trom we &longs;hould expect on
my Lady's return, till the diabolical thought pre&longs;ented
it&longs;elf of &longs;ub&longs;tituting my little nur&longs;ling, who&longs;e features
and complexion were nearly the &longs;ame, in the room of
ma&longs;ter Worthy, quieting our con&longs;ciences with the ides,
that, as his mother was dead, and his father poor, and
talked of going abroad, it would be doing a deed of charity,
and that, if we &longs;hould ever find the lo&longs;t in&longs;ant, we
might then acknowledge the fraud. Accordingly my
&longs;i&longs;ter returned to Twickenham with the child, the plan
&longs;ucceeded beyond our expectations, for we feared the penetration
of the &longs;ervants, and I wrote to the father of the
boy that his child was dead.”
“And who is it then,” cried the enraged Earl,
“whom you have thus infamou&longs;ly palmed upon the family
for the &longs;on of my &longs;i&longs;ter, and who was within a few
days to have been married to my daughter?”
“His father's name was George Littleton,” &longs;he replied,
faintly, “and he was chri&longs;tened after him.”
“And have you never heard any thing of my poor
cou&longs;in?” &longs;aid Eleanor, tenderly.
“Never, Madam; but &longs;hould he ever be found, he has
on his right arm, ju&longs;t below the &longs;houlder, the mark of a
mulberry.”
“Saddle my hor&longs;es—&longs;end off all my &longs;ervants,” &longs;aid
the Earl, &longs;tarting up; “he &longs;hall not go to that d—d
fighting place.”
“My dear father!” cried Eleanor.
“Rejoice, rejoice, my girl, for upon my &longs;oul the
young dog had that mark on his arm when I found him
&longs;prawling under the oak.”
“And is he alive, then?” &longs;aid the poor woman.
“Thank God—then I &longs;hall die content.”
Eleanor &longs;elt intere&longs;ted in the &longs;ate of the poor creature,
who had made this important di&longs;covery. She promi&longs;ed
to befriend her while &longs;he lived, and to take care of her
daughter, a girl about fifteen years old. She then returned
home with her father, who immediately dispatched
a me&longs;&longs;enger to bring his new-&longs;ound nephew to town
again.—While Eleanor retired to her apartment to
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reflect on the alteration a few hours had made, and how
much it had brightened her future pro&longs;pects.
George Littleton, as we mu&longs;t now call him, however
con&longs;cious of his innocence, felt greatly hurt at being &longs;o
long the u&longs;urper of another's name and property; but the
Earl would not &longs;uffer him to dwell on that &longs;ubject, and
on his marriage with Lady Eleanor. Sir George presented
his quandom rival with the writings of an e&longs;tate, worth
five hundred pounds a year, given to him and his heirs
for ever; and &longs;o fond were they of his &longs;ociety, that it was
but a &longs;mall part of every year he &longs;pent from them.
The Earl did not long &longs;urvive his daughter's marriage,
and Sir George &longs;ucceeded to the title of Earl of Chatterton,
the Earl having begged the rever&longs;ion of it for him
&longs;ome time previous to his death.
Mr. Littleton had given up all hopes of ever again
hearing of Rebecca.—He imagined her dead, but her
image was &longs;o deeply engraven on his heart, that he resolved
never to enter into the married &longs;tate. Sometimes
he would think &longs;he might, perhaps, have been his &longs;i&longs;ter,
for he had never heard her father's Chri&longs;tian name, but
his heart recoiled from this &longs;ugge&longs;tion She was undoubtedly
a relation, yet he had never heard Rebecca
mention an uncle, but &longs;he might have many; he had never
made many enquiries concerning her family.
One evening, when he was at a &longs;opper-party with
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, that nobleman addre&longs;&longs;ed him with,
“George, I &longs;aw an old acquaintance of your's la&longs;t night.
Ah, now I think of it, &longs;he may be a relation.”
“Who do you mean my Lord?”
“Who! why who but that demure, primitive piece of
affected innocence, Mrs. Rebecca Littleton.”
“You mu&longs;t be mi&longs;taken, my Lord: I have every
rea&longs;on to think &longs;he has been dead &longs;ome years.”
“And I have &longs;ub&longs;tantial rea&longs;ons to think &longs;he was alive
la&longs;t night, and in my arms.”
He then gave an account of the affair at Lord Winterton's,
little to the honour of hour heroine. He al&longs;o averred,
that &longs;he voluntarily accompanied him in a chai&longs;e to a
neighbouring town, where &longs;he &longs;pent the night at an inn,
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but left it in the morning with a per&longs;on whom he imagined
&longs;he liked better.
“Poor girl,” &longs;aid George, mentally, “heavy mu&longs;t
have been the trials that drove her to a life of infamy.”
From that time he frequented every place where he
&longs;uppo&longs;ed it likely to meet with her. “I will &longs;natch her
from perdition,” &longs;aid he. “She &longs;hall &longs;hare my little
portion, eat of my bread, and drink of my cup. I will
&longs;peak con&longs;olation to a mind that was once as pure as angels,
and cannot without infinite pain, be intimate with
vice.”
About this time Lord O&longs;&longs;iter's extravagance had &longs;o
envolved his e&longs;tates, that it was nece&longs;&longs;ary he &longs;hould make
a trip to the Continent in order to retrieve them. George
undertook to &longs;ettle all his debts, and put the e&longs;tates under
proper regulations, and to this purpo&longs;e took up his
re&longs;idence in Bedford-Square. He had been dining out,
where the champaigne flew bri&longs;kly round, when he accidentally
met our heroine ju&longs;t de&longs;cended from the &longs;tage.
The wine gave him a great &longs;low of &longs;pirits, which, added
to the relation he had heard from Lord O&longs;&longs;iter, accounts
for the rude manner in which he acco&longs;ted her.
The blow he received from the old &longs;ailor almo&longs;t stunned
him: However, he followed him into the hou&longs;e, and
in&longs;i&longs;ted on &longs;atisfaction for the in&longs;ult, as he termed it. The
old man &longs;wore it was a blow given in a right cau&longs;e, and
that he was ready to give him a dozen more if he was
not already &longs;atisfied.
During this altercation the coachman came in with
Rebecca's trunk, and a&longs;ked where the young woman
was to pay him his fare?
“She is ran off,” &longs;aid a man who &longs;aw the tran&longs;action.
“Well then,” &longs;ays the coachman, “I mu&longs;t keep the
trunk for what &longs;he owes.” As he &longs;poke he re&longs;ted one
end of it on a chair near a table, on which &longs;tood a candle.
The old &longs;ailor looked at the directions, rubbed his
eyes, and looked again. “By all that's good,” &longs;aid he,
“it is my own girl, my Rebecca?—Which way did &longs;he
go? Let me follow her. Stand out of my way.”
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“Not till you have paid me,” &longs;aid the coachman,
&longs;urlily.
The old man threw down five &longs;hillings, and de&longs;iring
a waiter to take care of the trunk, ran out, followed by
George; but, in&longs;tead of turning into Pall-Mall, they
went through the Palace into the Park, their &longs;earch was
therefore vain.
As they returned &longs;lowly together, George a&longs;ked the
old man “if he was any relation to Mi&longs;s Littleton?”
“Yes,” &longs;aid he, “I am all the relation &longs;he has in
the world, and a devili&longs;h poor one too, for I have not
above half a guinea at this pre&longs;ent time in my pocket.
I have not been in London above two hours, nor in
England above eight and forty.”
“Is your name Littleton, Sir?”
“So my mother told me: I &longs;uppo&longs;e &longs;he knew.”
“Pardon me if I am trouble&longs;ome; but had you ever
a &longs;on?”
“Yes, but he died an infant.”
“You were informed he died at Wind&longs;or?”
The old man an&longs;wered in the affirmative.
“Ah! my dear Sir,” &longs;aid George, “you were deceived—
your &longs;on &longs;till lives—longs eagerly to embrace
you—and divide with you the competence he enjoys.”
By this time they had returned to the public-hou&longs;e.
George called for a room, knelt before his father, and
related to him all the reader is already acquainted with.
What wonder if, in the delightful hurry of &longs;pirits this
di&longs;covery occa&longs;ioned, they did not think of the nece&longs;&longs;ity
of writing a note for Rebecca, in ca&longs;e &longs;he came to enquire
for her trunk; but, &longs;atisfied with leaving a verbal
me&longs;&longs;age, they repaired to Bedford-&longs;quare, to enjoy the
plea&longs;ures of an uninterrupted conver&longs;ation.
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CHAP. XXXV. DISAPPOINTMENT.
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The next morning Rebecca, &longs;o dear to both their
hearts, recurred to their imaginations; George
beheld her in want, plunged in infamy, the horrors of
which her &longs;u&longs;ceptible heart &longs;everely felt, and from which
&longs;he could by no means extricate her&longs;elf.
“She may be in want,” &longs;aid his father; “but I'll
be d—d if &longs;he is infamous. I know the dear girl,
George, and I'd &longs;take my life upon her innocence. He
then gave his &longs;on an account of the manner in which he
found her in America, of the re&longs;pect and e&longs;teem &longs;he created
wherever &longs;he was known, and how much &longs;he was beloved
by Colonel Abthorpe's family. But let us go to
the hou&longs;e where the coach &longs;topped,” continued he; “&longs;he
will mo&longs;t likely call there to get her trunk.”
They went out together, and entered the hou&longs;e ju&longs;t ten
minutes after Rebecca had left it. Di&longs;appointed and
grieved, unable by any means to trace which way &longs;he had
gone, and fearing &longs;he would be di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed by the lo&longs;s of
her trunk, which might contain all her wordly po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ions,
they returned heavily home, and re&longs;olved to adverti&longs;e it.
This they immediately did in &longs;everal papers, in &longs;uch a
manner as it was impo&longs;&longs;ible for Rebecca not to know it
was her&longs;elf that was meant, though only the initials of
the name were u&longs;ed; but Rebecca never &longs;aw the papers,
and the repeated adverti&longs;ements were fruitle&longs;s.
George had introduced his father to Lord and Lady
Chatterton; but, thought Rebecca had been once or twice
mentioned before that Lady, he had always avoided entering
into explanations, and Lady Chatterton did not
know that &longs;he was the woman George had &longs;o long loved;
for though, in the earlier part of their intimacy, he
had frequently declared that his heart was engaged, he
had never &longs;aid to whom, or whether &longs;he was above or
beneath him in rank; but &longs;imply &longs;aid, he had no hope of
being united to her.
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On the day Lady Chatterton had met Rebecca at the
jeweller's, &longs;he mentioned the circum&longs;tance at dinner
time. George and his father that day dined with them.
“I wanted to buy it of her,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “for one of the
pictures was &longs;o like George Littleton, and the other was
a Lady, but I do not recollect who, though I think, I
have &longs;een the features before.”
“Good heavens!” &longs;aid George, “I am certain it
could only be Rebecca her&longs;elf.”
“I wi&longs;h it may,” &longs;aid the Lady;—“but I did not
think of it at the time I &longs;aw her: however, I have appointed
her to come here to-morrow.”
“How did the poor girl look?” &longs;aid old Mr. Littleton.
“Very pale,” replied the Lady, “and, I fear, is
much di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed by the agitation &longs;he di&longs;covered in her
countenance, and her vi&longs;ible reluctance to part with the
picture.”
“Oh! my poor lo&longs;t Rebecca,” &longs;aid George, and, rising
ha&longs;tily from table, left the room, to give vent to
tho&longs;e emotions he could no longer &longs;uppre&longs;s.
Rebecca, in di&longs;tre&longs;s, offering, with evident reluctance
the gold that enveloped his portrait to &longs;ale, convinced
him he &longs;till retained a tender place in her remembrance;
once to have been beloved by Rebecca would have been
his highe&longs;t wi&longs;h—now &longs;he was contaminated—lo&longs;t to virtue!
And, though &longs;till inexpre&longs;&longs;ibly dear to his heart,
&longs;he could never be his wife; yet &longs;he might be innocent.
Lord O&longs;&longs;iter was not a man of the &longs;tricte&longs;t veracity. He
would have given worlds for an interview with her, and
unable to wait the i&longs;&longs;ue of the morning, when &longs;he was expected
in St. Alban's-&longs;treet, he obtained from Lady Chatterton
a direction to the jeweller, and ha&longs;tened to Cockspur-street,
in hopes to be able through him to trace out
her place of abode; but the jeweller had never &longs;een her
before, and had hardly thought of her &longs;ince. He could
give him no information.
Tho&longs;e only who have felt the pangs of &longs;u&longs;pence can
imagine the anxiety of Mr. Littleton and George during
the night. The next morning they repaired early to St.
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Alban's-&longs;treet, but the day pa&longs;&longs;ed and no Rebecca appeared.
Another and another morning came, and &longs;till
brought with them di&longs;appointment.
“She will never come,”—&longs;aid George.—“The poor
girl is con&longs;cious of her unhappy &longs;ituation, and &longs;hame prevents
her taking advantage of Lady Chatterton's offers
of &longs;ervice. Mr. Littleton began to be of the &longs;ame opinion;
but the benevolent Lady Chatterton never went
out without leaving orders with her porter, that, &longs;hould
Rebecca call, &longs;he might be de&longs;ired to wait till her return.
“I will my&longs;elf,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “have the plea&longs;ure
of pre&longs;enting her to her uncle. She &longs;hall not be ha&longs;tily
informed that he is in England, left it &longs;hould overpower
her &longs;pirits, and if I find her worthy, I will give her to
her amiable cou&longs;in, and make her a fortune worth his acceptance.”
But unfortunately Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter's joy, the effu&longs;ions of
which was mingled with incoherent intelligence concerning
her uncle's, marriage, prevented poor Rebecca from
reaping any benefit from her Lady&longs;hip's kind intentions
in her behalf.
George Littleton had accompanied Lord and Lady
Chatterton in their morning ride. They returned together.
Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter came running to them as they entered
the parlour.
“Oh! dear aunt, who do you think has been here—
the greate&longs;t &longs;tranger! I do not think you know her; but
I told her I was &longs;ure you would be glad to &longs;ee her.”
“Why, who was it, my love?” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip,
&longs;eating her&longs;elf.
“Why, it was my own Rebecca Littleton; I knew
her in a minute, though &longs;he is &longs;o pale and thin.”
“And where is &longs;he?” &longs;aid George, almo&longs;t choaked
with ri&longs;ing emotions!
“She could not wait any longer,” replied the child;
“but &longs;aid &longs;he would call again to-morrow”
“Was ever any thing &longs;o unfortunate!” &longs;aid Lady
Chatterton.
George bit his lips, took ha&longs;ty &longs;trides backward and
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forward in the room, frequently &longs;truck his forehead with
his hand, but &longs;aid not a word.
In the afternoon the following letter was brought to
Lady Chatterton:
“Madam,
“Agreeable to your Lady&longs;hip's benevolent de&longs;ire, I
this morning waited on you in St. Alban's-&longs;treet, an honor
which the extreme illne&longs;s of my mother had prevented
my enjoying &longs;o early as I could have wi&longs;hed. While
I was, in compliance with your commands, waiting your
Lady&longs;hip's return from airing, I di&longs;covered that Lord
Chatterton and Sir George Worthy are one and the &longs;ame
per&longs;on; it therefore &longs;truck me that your Lady&longs;hip, having
&longs;een his portrait in my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion, might entertain but
an indifferent opinion of my character: It might al&longs;o occasion
unea&longs;ine&longs;s between my Lord and you, and interrupt
that felicity which I &longs;ervently wi&longs;h may be as permanent
and la&longs;ting as your lives. I thought it my
duty, therefore, to explain to your Lady&longs;hip the means
by which this portrait came into my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion.
“I once, Madam, lived in the family of the late Lady
Mary Worthy, more as an highly favoured companion
than a &longs;ervant. Indeed &longs;he was to me a generous
friend, a dear and re&longs;pected benefactre&longs;s, whom living I
loved with the affection of a daughter, and whom dead
I can never cea&longs;e to lament.
“Some months after her death, I received her portrait
as a pre&longs;ent from Sir George, by the hands of Mrs.
Harley, her Lady&longs;hip's hou&longs;e-keeper, but did not know
it contained the re&longs;emblance of Sir George him&longs;elf till
&longs;ome time after it had been in my po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ion; nor have
I &longs;een him &longs;ince, till about two months ago, when I
accidentally met him in the &longs;treet, and even then we
&longs;carcely &longs;poke to each other.
“Permit me, Madam, to return my thanks for the
unexpected bounty you &longs;o delicately be&longs;towed upon me;
to thank you al&longs;o for that benevolence of heart which
led you &longs;o far to intere&longs;t your&longs;elf in my behalf, as to with
again to &longs;ee me; to have enjoyed your friendly protection
would have been a cordial to my depre&longs;&longs;ed &longs;oul; to
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deserve it, the &longs;tudy of my life: but, alas, Madam, an insurmountable
ob&longs;tacle is placed between me and &longs;o enviable
a di&longs;tinction. Since I was &longs;o happy as to meet you,
a circum&longs;tance has occurred, which will prevent my again
having the plea&longs;ure of waiting on you: But permit me
to offer up the mo&longs;t ardent prayers for the continued happiness
of your&longs;elf and Lord. May peace and love ever
dwell in your bo&longs;oms, and pro&longs;perity crown your days.
Permit me al&longs;o to add, that however incon&longs;i&longs;tent my conduct
may appear, my heart will everflow with the mo&longs;t
grateful affection towards your Lady&longs;hip, while it beats
in the brea&longs;t of,
Madam,
Your obliged humble &longs;ervant,
REBECCA LITTLETON.”
P. S. I mu&longs;t entreat your Lady&longs;hip to inform my dear
Mi&longs;s O&longs;&longs;iter, how much I was gratified by her affectionate
remembrance of me, and that I &longs;hall ever pray for her
happine&longs;s.
“I can't comprehend all this,” &longs;aid Lady Chatterton,
giving the letter into George Littleton's hand. He ran
his eye ha&longs;tily over the contents.
“But I can,” &longs;aid he: “I conceive it all; the dear
girl has never heard of the di&longs;covery of the real Sir George
Worthy. She imagines me to be your hu&longs;band, and the
genero&longs;ity of her &longs;oul will not &longs;uffer her to throw her&longs;elf
in the way of a man who once pro&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed to love her, and
whom, from the whole tenor of her conduct, I have reason
to think &longs;he loves.”
“I would lay my life &longs;he is a good girl,” &longs;aid Lady
Chatterton; “indeed her countenance appeared the index
of a mind replete with innocence and purity. I will
in&longs;tantly order the carriage, and go to her; nor will I return
without her.”
“Dear, generous Lady Chatterton,” &longs;aid George,
ringing the bell.
“Where is the per&longs;on who brought this letter?” &longs;aid
the Lady.
“It was brought by a porter, Madam, and he did not
&longs;top a moment.”
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The joy that had for a moment animated the features
of George in&longs;tantly vani&longs;hed. He again caught up the
letter, but there was no addre&longs;s annexed to it.
Ju&longs;t then his father entered, and they lamented together,
that now they were more than ever convinced of the
worth of Rebecca &longs;he had effectually &longs;ecluded her&longs;elf
from them.
“Overwhelmed with poverty too,” &longs;aid George,
and attendant on a &longs;ick mother, who may, perhaps, be
peri&longs;hing for want, not only of medical a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance, but of
the comforts and nece&longs;&longs;aries on which exi&longs;tence depends.”
“We will u&longs;e every endeavour though to di&longs;cover
her retreat,” &longs;aid Lady Chatterton, wiping away the tears
that &longs;tole from her expre&longs;&longs;ive eyes, “and when we have
found her we will cha&longs;e &longs;orrow from her heart, and unite
our endeavours to make her forget &longs;he had ever been unhappy.”
CHAP. XXXVI. LADY CHATTERTON'S BIRTH-DAY.
After every probable method had been taken by
Mr. Littleton, George and Lady Chatterton, to
di&longs;cover our heroine's retreat, all proving equally ineffectual,
they were obliged to re&longs;t &longs;atisfied that no exertion
of theirs had been wanting; and tru&longs;t to chance for a
di&longs;covery, which their united efforts had been unable to
make. Old Mr. Littleton began to be tired of living on
&longs;hore, and applied for employment; but as he annexed
to the reque&longs;t the condition of being promoted in the service,
he fonnd but little attention was paid to it, and he
only received repeated promi&longs;es, that when opportunity
offered he &longs;hould be remembered. He &longs;pent great part of
his time with the Chatterton family, and as the &longs;ummer
approached it was propo&longs;ed, that both him&longs;elf and George
&longs;hould accompany them to their country &longs;eat.
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Lady Chatterton's birth-day was on the 7th of June,
and &longs;he made a point of always celebrating it before &longs;he
left town, her hu&longs;band regularly pre&longs;enting her with two
hundred pounds to be expended on the occa&longs;ion. Mr.
Clayton, his Lord&longs;hip's chaplain, being caterer extraordinary,
always provided the entertainment, in which her
Lady&longs;hip was &longs;o very &longs;elfi&longs;h, as to allow no one to partake
but her hu&longs;band, this identical chaplain, and her&longs;elf.
Mr. Clayton was always extremely bu&longs;y for &longs;ome
weeks previous to the day, the whole cities of London,
We&longs;tmin&longs;ter, and their environs, being ran&longs;acked for delicacies
to &longs;uit her Lady&longs;hip's ta&longs;te; for on this day &longs;he
was a real voluptuary, though all the re&longs;t of her life was
marked by temperance and moderation: But to &longs;peak
without a metaphor, Lady Chatterton was a woman of
&longs;o unfa&longs;hionable a turn, that, rather than rai&longs;e the envy
of half the town, by giving a &longs;plendid ball, &longs;he cho&longs;e to
expend the money her hu&longs;band gave her in relieving indigence,
and rai&longs;ing depre&longs;&longs;ed merit.
“There &longs;hall be &longs;ome cau&longs;e for rejoicing on my birth-day,”
&longs;aid &longs;he, “for I will cheer the afflicted &longs;pirit, and
fulfil the duties incumbent on my &longs;tation; we were created
to be of &longs;ervice to each other, and we have no reason
to rejoice in our creation but as we fulfil the de&longs;ign
of him who gave us being.”
Mr. Clayton, therefore, carefully &longs;earched for objects
proper to excite her Lady&longs;hip's compa&longs;&longs;ion, and &longs;hare
her benevolence. The happy &longs;ea&longs;on now drew near,
and Clayton took his u&longs;al walks round the metropolis,
while, with a laudable curio&longs;ity, he made little errands
into chandlers-&longs;hops, green-&longs;talls, and public hou&longs;es, in
order to learn the circum&longs;tances of the people in every
poor neighbourhood through which he pa&longs;&longs;ed. It happened,
as he was purcha&longs;ing &longs;ome barly-&longs;ugar at a &longs;hop
of the former de&longs;cription, he &longs;aw two &longs;u&longs;picious looking
men a&longs;cend the &longs;tairs, and immediately after heard a
bu&longs;tle in the appartment over the &longs;hop. Pre&longs;ently the
men came down, accompanied by a genteel looking
man in deep mourning. He had the air and manner of
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a gentleman; but his uncombed hair, and pale, unshaven
face, be&longs;poke a mind ill at ea&longs;e.
“Well, they have nabb'd him at la&longs;t,” &longs;aid the mistress
of the &longs;hop, as the young man and his ungenteel
companions left the hou&longs;e together.—
“Would you believe it, Sir, that young man, not &longs;ix
months ago, was one of the gaye&longs;t bucks about town.
I remember him fla&longs;hing away like a Lord, and I was
told he vi&longs;ited Lords and gentlefolks of great fortune.
Indeed, they did &longs;ay, there was a Lady of quality in
love with him, but that was not much to his credit or
advantage, for &longs;he was a married woman, and once he
had liked to have got him&longs;elf killed by her hu&longs;band.”
“But if he was &longs;o gay,” &longs;aid Clayton, “how came
he &longs;o reduced as he now appears?”
“Why, Sir, you mu&longs;t know I can give you good
information, for I once lived &longs;ervant in the family,
though now, thank God, I can hold up my head without
&longs;ervice, or without being beholding to any body,
and that is more than every one can &longs;ay.”
“Well, but about the young gentleman,” &longs;aid Clayton,
rather impatiently.
“Yes, as I was &longs;aying, he was a gay &longs;park, and
Mi&longs;s, his &longs;i&longs;ter, a very fine Lady. His father was a merchant,
and kept a large hou&longs;e in the city, and lived
away at a very high rate; coach, &longs;ervants, every thing
like a Lord: Well, behold you, he died about &longs;ix
months ago, and left not a farthing behind him, &longs;o
away went coach, fine hou&longs;e, furniture, plate and all,
to pay his debts, and Madam, Mi&longs;s, and her brother,
forced to humble them&longs;elves, &longs;o they came to lodge
with me. The young man got a trifling place in &longs;ome
office, and that is all they have to live on, which, I believe,
in my con&longs;cience, is little enough, for they run
fine long bills with me.
Why, Sir, they owes me above three guineas now; but,
&longs;eeing as how other people are taken mea&longs;ures to get
their own, I &longs;hall make bold to a&longs;k for mine. Charity
begins at home, is an old proverb, and a very good one;
don't you think &longs;o, Sir? If &longs;o be Mr. Savage can't pay
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his taylor, mayhap, when the bill gets a little higher,
he might not be able to pay me.”
“True,” &longs;aid Clayton, coldly; “but could you
briug me to a fight of Mrs. Savage, or her daughter?”
“Lord! not I; they are &longs;o proud, that if a body offers
to &longs;peak or introduce a friend, they are upon &longs;tilts
directly.”
“Well, but pray &longs;tep up with a civil me&longs;&longs;age from
me; &longs;ay I wi&longs;h to &longs;peak with them on particular business.”
“And who mu&longs;t I tell them you are, Sir?”
“My name is of no con&longs;equence; only &longs;ay a clergyman.”
The woman executed the commi&longs;&longs;ion, and, &longs;oon returning,
de&longs;ired Mr. Clayton to walk up.
On entering a &longs;mall ill-furni&longs;hed apartment, he beheld
two charmingly prepo&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ing women, the elde&longs;t of whom
did not appear to be more than forty years old, and the
younge&longs;t &longs;eventeen; they were dre&longs;&longs;ed in mourning, plain
but extremely becoming, and had much the air of women
of fa&longs;hion.
He apologized for the &longs;eeming rudene&longs;s of a &longs;tranger
intruding him&longs;elf into their apartments uninvited, mentioned
that he had &longs;een the tran&longs;action of the arre&longs;t, and
thought it might be in his power to alleviate, if not entirely
remove, their di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;es.
The mother's eyes overflowed at the mention of her
&longs;on's impri&longs;onment. Her daughter took her hand, pressed
it to her lips, gave her a con&longs;olatory look; but the
&longs;tarting drops of &longs;ympathy that trembled in her eyes forbade
her utterance.
“Lady Chatterton will dry tho&longs;e tears,” &longs;aid Clayton,
mentally, “or I am deceived in her character.—
What a pity &longs;o much &longs;weetne&longs;s &longs;hould droop under the
heavy hand of affliction!”
Clayton was a young man—Mi&longs;s Savage a charming
woman.
He drew from them, in the mo&longs;t delicate manner, an
account of their various embarra&longs;&longs;ments in pecuniary matters,
&longs;aid he had known the late Mr. Savage, and once
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received a great obligation at his hands, which he was
happy in having now the power to return, reque&longs;ted they
would con&longs;ider him as their banker; “for, my dear
Mi&longs;s,” &longs;aid he to the daughter, “I owed your father a
con&longs;iderable &longs;um of money.” He then pre&longs;ented them
with the whole contents of his pur&longs;e, as he &longs;aid, in part
of payment, and departed, promi&longs;ing to &longs;ee them again
in a few days.
His a&longs;&longs;ertions, in regard to having known Mr. Savage,
were not &longs;trictly true; but it was a pious fraud, by which
he prevailed on the di&longs;tre&longs;&longs;ed ladies to accept pecuniary
a&longs;&longs;i&longs;tance, and, he humbly tru&longs;ted, the de&longs;ign would
&longs;anctify the act.
Two days from this was Lady Chatterton's birth-day.
“Come, Clayton,” &longs;aid &longs;he, when &longs;he had read the
memorandums over of that day's intended route, “we
will pay the fir&longs;t vi&longs;it to your pretty Savage.”
Clayton introduced her to the Ladies as a per&longs;on courting
their friend&longs;hip, and de&longs;irous of &longs;erving them. From
them &longs;he learned that young Savage, when arre&longs;ted, having
not the lea&longs;t hope of liberation, had in&longs;i&longs;ted on being
immediately conveyed to pri&longs;on.
“Then we will go and find a key to open tho&longs;e tremendous
doors,” &longs;aid Lady Chatterton, “and I think,”
glancing her eyes over her memorandums, “I have &longs;ome
other bu&longs;ine&longs;s to tran&longs;act there. My dear Ladies, I
will &longs;oon &longs;end this beloved &longs;on and brother to you, on
condition you all dine with me to-day at five o'clock.”
She pre&longs;ented her card and departed, leaving the ladies
oppre&longs;&longs;ed with delightful &longs;en&longs;ations that could only be
expre&longs;&longs;ed by tears.
Lady Chatterton proceeded to the pri&longs;on, and was introduced
to young Savage, whom &longs;he immediately congratulated
on his liberty, “your di&longs;agreeable bu&longs;ine&longs;s is
all &longs;ettled, Sir, &longs;aid &longs;he, “and I beg you will ha&longs;ten
home to your expecting mother and &longs;i&longs;ter.” Savage gazed
with a&longs;toni&longs;hment at Lady Chatterton, for habited as
&longs;he was in a plain robe of white mu&longs;lin, a bonnet and
a cloack of the &longs;ame materials, and led by the hand of the
meek, benevolent looking Clayton, he knew not whether
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to con&longs;ider her as an inhabibant of this nether globe, or a
a cele&longs;tial &longs;pirit.
“If what you &longs;ay, Madam,” cried he, “be really
true, and I have no rea&longs;on to doubt it, for your countenance
is benevolence it&longs;elf. Pardon my &longs;eeming ingratitude,
but I could have wi&longs;hed the affair had not been &longs;o
&longs;peedily concluded.”
“Strange, indeed!” &longs;aid her lady&longs;hip: Do you not
wi&longs;h for liberty?”
“Mo&longs;t ardently, Madam; but there is in this habitation
of mi&longs;ery an object more de&longs;erving your charitable
notice, an object &longs;o pitiable, &longs;o very intere&longs;ting to the
feelings of humanity, that I could, with &longs;atisfaction have
&longs;een the liberality extended in my behalf transferred to
her.”
“Thank heaven!” &longs;aid her Lady&longs;hip, “neither the
means of comforting the afflicted, nor the will to u&longs;e
tho&longs;e means, are denied me; neither my heart or pur&longs;e
are limitted. Come, Sir, lead on to the place where I
may dry the tear of &longs;orrow, and gladden the pri&longs;oner's
ear by the welcome &longs;ound of liberty.”
Savage led the way to a mi&longs;erable room, where, on a
tru&longs;s of &longs;traw, for neither bed nor chair appeared in the
apartment, laid an old woman, almo&longs;t worn to a skeleton,
who&longs;e haggard looks and laboured breathing, seemed
to portend approaching di&longs;&longs;olution!—On the &longs;ame
&longs;traw, &longs;upporting the aged invalid's head in her lap, &longs;at
the almo&longs;t &longs;hadowy figure of a young creature, habited
in a white bead gown, her hair hanging negligently
over her face and &longs;houlders, one hand held the burning
forehead of the apparently dying woman, the other hung
motionle&longs;s by her &longs;ide. Be&longs;ide them &longs;tood a pitcher of
water, and a &longs;mall brown loaf.
“Heaven pre&longs;erve us,” &longs;aid lady Chatterton, ga&longs;ping
for breath, “what a &longs;cene is here!” The old woman
rai&longs;ed her languid eyes at the &longs;ound of the voice, but
the young one remained in the &longs;ame po&longs;ture, nor &longs;eemed
to heed that any one approached.
Lady Chatterton drew near, took her hand, and, in
a voice &longs;oft as the mu&longs;ic of the &longs;pheres, bid her be
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comsorted. “Come, cheer up, my poor girl,” &longs;aid &longs;he, “I
will do all I can to &longs;erve you.”
She turned her head, looked earne&longs;tly at Lady Chartterton,
a &longs;aint glow ru&longs;hed over her pale features, and as
quickly di&longs;appeared as &longs;he exclaimed:—“Oh! I know
you; you are an angel of benevolence,” and &longs;ainted.
She was immediately carried into the air, and on cutting
the lace of her &longs;tays, Lady Chatterton di&longs;covered a
&longs;mall &longs;hagreen ca&longs;e, hung pendant from her neck by a
riband. A &longs;udden irre&longs;i&longs;table impul&longs;e led her to open it,
when the portraits of George Littleton and Lady Mary
&longs;truck her fight. She looked again on the young woman,
who was now ju&longs;t recovering, and in&longs;tantly in her
reanimated countenance, recognized the features of Rebecca.
The debt, for which her mother had been thrown into
pri&longs;on, was fifteen pounds, which was contracted with
the apothecary during her's and Rebecca's illne&longs;s. Lady
Chatterton &longs;oon contrived to have it di&longs;charged, and
poor Mrs. Serl being tenderly informed of her liberation,
was carefully placed in the carriage, her daughter on
one &longs;ide, and her deliverer on the other, who &longs;upported
her as the coach moved &longs;lowly toward St. Alban's-Street;
nor ever did conqueror, in his triumphal car, feel more
exulting &longs;en&longs;ations than did her Lady&longs;hip when &longs;he led
the grateful, trembling Rebecca into her own hou&longs;e,
&longs;aw her mother laid in a comfortable bed, and heard
from a phy&longs;ician, that tender attention and peace of
mind, would be more efficacious towards her re&longs;toration
than medicine. He al&longs;o ordered Rebecca to be immediately
put to bed, and take &longs;ome wine and water,
with a few drops of laudanum in it, as the agitation of
her &longs;pirits, and &longs;uddenchange of fortune, had occasioned
a wildne&longs;s in her looks, and an incoherence in her
di&longs;cour&longs;e, that rather alarmed him. Lady Chatterton
&longs;aw the pre&longs;cription admini&longs;tered, and then de&longs;cended
to meet her gue&longs;ts in the dining parlour, while the
exhau&longs;ted Rebecca &longs;unk into a more peaceful &longs;lumber
than &longs;he had enjoyed for many months.
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CHAP. XXXVII. AS IT SHOULD BE.
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
The party a&longs;&longs;embled in the dining parlour were
Lord and Lady Chatterton, the Savages, Mr. Clayton,
George Littleton and his father.
It was a tender, difficult ta&longs;k to inform the&longs;e affectionate
relations that Rebecca was found, yet it was a ta&longs;k her
Lady&longs;hip's generous heart burned to execute. Gently
and by degrees &longs;he made the intere&longs;ting di&longs;covery; but
when George knew that his Rebecca was really in the
hou&longs;e, it was impo&longs;&longs;ible to prevent his flying to the apartment
that contained her; Mr. Littleton followed. They
entered the chamber with cautious &longs;tep. George &longs;oftly
drew a&longs;ide the curtain. She was in a profound &longs;leep.
He &longs;tood gazing with a look of joy, mingled with tender
pity, on her altered countenance. Mr. Littleton
&longs;unk on a chair by the bed&longs;ide. “Oh! my poor suffering
girl,” &longs;aid he, “how thou art changed!” His
head fell on the pillow be&longs;ide her, and tears ru&longs;hed down
his venerable countenance.
Rebecca moved, the nur&longs;e forced George from her
bed-&longs;ide. She opened her eyes; the power of recollection
&longs;eemed for a while &longs;u&longs;pended. She looked wildly
round her.
“Where is my mother?” &longs;aid &longs;he: “I will not be
taken from her. If &longs;he mu&longs;t die in pri&longs;on, I will die
with her.” She rai&longs;ed her&longs;elf in bed, and &longs;aw her
uncle.
“Rebecca!” &longs;aid he, in an accent of tenderne&longs;s,
“have you forgot me, my dear Rebecca.”
“Oh! no, my beloved uncle,” &longs;aid &longs;he, her head
dropping on his &longs;houlder. “Oh! no. How long have
you been in England?” Then pau&longs;ing a moment:
“But what have they done with my mother?”
“She is &longs;afe, my love; endeavour to recollect yourself:
do you not know &longs;he came with you to this hou&longs;e?
She is in bed in the next room.”
Rebecca put her hand to her forehead: “I am
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striving to think,” &longs;aid &longs;he; “but I cannot remember
where I am, how I came here.”—By degrees the power
of recollection returned, and every circum&longs;tance recurred
to her memory:—“I am in the hou&longs;e of Lord
Chatterton,” &longs;aid &longs;he. “I could have preferred any
other.”
“But &longs;uppo&longs;e, my dear girl, Lord Chatterton &longs;hould
not be the per&longs;on you think him? Suppo&longs;e he &longs;hould
be a man whom you have never &longs;een?”
Rebecca li&longs;tened in &longs;ilence, and her uncle, in the mo&longs;t
cautious manner, informed her of his having found a
&longs;on, and that &longs;on was the man &longs;he had imagined married
to Lady Eleanor Harcourt.
The relation was wonderful. Rebecca could &longs;carcely
credit it, yet, if it was really true, if &longs;he was &longs;till beloved
by the man who&longs;e image was engraven on her
heart, and, indeed, relea&longs;ed from the vow &longs;he had &longs;o
&longs;olemnly given her decea&longs;ed benefactre&longs;s, the rapidity
with which the&longs;e reflections ru&longs;hed through her brain,
the violent emotions of her heart, almo&longs;t overpowered
her weak frame. She breathed with difficulty, her
eyes grew dim, the attendant perceived the change,
and, giving her a few drops in &longs;ome water, recalled her
fleeting &longs;pirits.
“And where is this new cou&longs;in of mine?” &longs;aid &longs;he,
with a faint &longs;mile, when &longs;he was a little recovered:
“methinks I &longs;hould like to &longs;ee him.”
George's heart palpitated violently. He drew near
the bed, dropped on one knee, and cried, “Oh! my
Rebecca, behold me here!”
A &longs;mile of ineffable plea&longs;ure beamed over the countenance
of Rebecca while &longs;he extended her hand toward
her lover. He took it, and pre&longs;&longs;ed it to his lips. The
en&longs;uing &longs;cene can be ea&longs;ily imagined by the feeling
heart, and to tho&longs;e devoid of &longs;en&longs;ibility, the de&longs;cription
would be in&longs;ipid, we therefore pa&longs;s it over in &longs;ilence.
Peace being now re&longs;tored to the bo&longs;om of Rebecca,
her health, her vivacity and bloom, rapidly returned,
her mother too, recovered a &longs;ufficient degree of health,
to enable her to participate in her daughter's happine&longs;s.
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An early day was named for the union of George and
Rebecca, previous to which Lord Chatterton procured
the old lieutenant to be &longs;uperannuated, and a hand&longs;ome
pen&longs;ion was given him in return for his long and faithful
&longs;ervices; a lucrative po&longs;t was al&longs;o procured for
George, but he reque&longs;ted leave to transfer it to young
Savage.
“Pardon me, my Lord,” &longs;aid he, “but that young
gentleman has no means of &longs;upporting his amiable mother
and &longs;i&longs;ter. For my own part, though in the early
part of life accu&longs;tomed to all the indulgencies of an affluent
fortune, I have been long convinced, that abundance
of riches cannot &longs;ecure happine&longs;s. Po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of
my Rebecca, who&longs;e humble &longs;pirit will enjoy mo&longs;t felicity
in the quiet, undi&longs;turbed walks of life, beholding
my father po&longs;&longs;e&longs;&longs;ed of &longs;ufficient to make his &longs;etting &longs;un
&longs;erene and unclouded, what can I de&longs;ire more? We will
retire into Berk&longs;hire, to the e&longs;tate you &longs;o generou&longs;ly settled
on my family, and if we can once a year boa&longs;t of
the honour of a vi&longs;it from you and your amiable Lady,
I &longs;hall be the happie&longs;t mortal breathing.” His Lordship
was plea&longs;ed with George's frankne&longs;s, and the place
was given to Savage, who was equally capable of discharging
the duties incumbent upon him with honour
and integrity.
Lady Chatterton had, with her Lord's approbation,
ordered a &longs;ettlement to be made on Rebecca of two
thou&longs;and pounds, which &longs;um his Lord&longs;hip &longs;upplied and
placed in the funds for her own particular u&longs;e.
The day after the union took place, Rebecca,
George, Mr. Littleton, and Mrs. Serl, took an affectionate
leave of their generous friends in St. Alban'sstreet,
and departed for Berk&longs;hire.—The beauty of
the &longs;ituation, the neat cottage-like appearance of the
hou&longs;e, and beautiful &longs;implicity of the furniture, afforded
Rebecca the mo&longs;t plea&longs;urable &longs;en&longs;ations. She was
&longs;oon vi&longs;ited by the neighbouring gentry, among whom,
what was her &longs;urpri&longs;e to &longs;ee, Lady Winterton, who&longs;e
&longs;able habilments told &longs;he was emancipated from that
wor&longs;t of &longs;lavery, wedlock, with the man &longs;he could not
love.
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She informed our heroine that her health was &longs;o impaired
by vexation, and the effects of the wound &longs;he
had received, that her life was thought in imminent
danger. Change of air was pre&longs;cribed, and her Lord
had brought her down to a &longs;mall e&longs;tate of his in Berkshire;
that &longs;he had found benefit from the change, but
from the time of their leaving town, her Lord's health
had declined; he had been &longs;ubject to an a&longs;thmatic complaint,
which increa&longs;ed upon him, and had terminated
his life about two months before Rebecca's arrival in the
country.
Lady Winterton was too delicate in her pre&longs;ent circumstances
to mention the name of Savage. She had
been imprudent, but never guilty. Sickne&longs;s had moderated
the extreme vivacity of her di&longs;po&longs;ition, and taught
her to reflect. She could not avoid wi&longs;hing to hear of
him, or learn the rea&longs;on why, from the fatal evening
when they met at Chi&longs;wick, he had never attempted to
write to or &longs;ee her. She was entirely ignorant of his
fate from that time, yet &longs;he kept tho&longs;e wi&longs;hes carefully
concealed.
Rebecca applauded her conduct, and de&longs;ired her husband
to mention, when next he wrote to Savage, that
Lady Winterton was their neighbour, and that &longs;he was
a widow. The effect this letter produced may be ea&longs;ily
imagined. Savage flew into Berk&longs;hire on the wings of
love, and the fair widow promi&longs;ed, in due time, to give
him her hand.
Lord and Lady O&longs;&longs;iter continued on the Continent,
where, immer&longs;ed in vice and di&longs;&longs;ipation, his Lord&longs;hip
fell a victim to intemperance, and her Lady&longs;hip became
notorious for her gallantry; forgetful of the &longs;acred
name of mother, &longs;he gave the reins to folly, and publicly
defied the laws of virtue and honour.
Though Rebecca, from the variegated &longs;cenes through
which &longs;he had pa&longs;&longs;ed, had purcha&longs;ed a thorough knowledge
of the world, yet had it not hardened her heart,
or rendered her callous to the calls of mi&longs;ery, her prudence
in her family concerns enabled her ever to have a
mor&longs;el for the hungry, and a garment to throw over the
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de&longs;titute orphan. When the poor &longs;aw her they ble&longs;&longs;ed
her—infant lips &longs;et forth her prai&longs;es—and aged knees
bent for her before the Throne of Grace. She cheered
the declining years of her mother and uncle. They
called down ble&longs;&longs;ings on her head.
Her hu&longs;band adored her. Her &longs;ervants loved and reverenced
her. Her bo&longs;om was the &longs;eat of unfeigned piety.
The &longs;mile of content dimpled on her cheek, and
her dwelling was the man&longs;ion of peace.
FINIS.
Back matter
-- --
PROPOSALS For PRINTING by SUBSCRIPTION, AN ORIGINAL NOVEL, IN FOUR VOLUMES DUODECIMO.
[figure description] Advertisement.[end figure description]
Dedicated, by permi&longs;&longs;ion, to Mrs. Bingham,
entitled,
TRIALS OF THE HUMAN HEART.
By Mrs. ROWSON,
Of the NEW THEATRE, Philadelphia,
Author of Victoria, Inquisitor, Charlotte, Fille
de Chambre, &c. &c.
“—If there's a pow'r above us,
“(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud,
“Thro' all her works,) he mu&longs;t delight in virtue,
“And that which he delights in, mu&longs;t be happy.”
“The &longs;oul, &longs;ecur'd in her exi&longs;tence, &longs;miles
“At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.”
CONDITIONS.
I. The work to be printed with a neat type, on good paper.
II. Price to &longs;ub&longs;cribers two dollars bound, one half to be paid at the
time of &longs;ub&longs;cribing.
III. The &longs;ub&longs;cribers' names will be prefixed as patrons of the undertaking.
* * * Sub&longs;criptions are received by the Author, the corner of Seventh
and Che&longs;nut-&longs;treets, Me&longs;&longs;rs. Carey, Rice and Dob&longs;on, Philadelphia—
Mr. Greene, Annapolis—Me&longs;&longs;rs. Allen, Berry and S.
Campbell, New-York—Me&longs;&longs;rs. We&longs;t, Thomas & Andrews, Blake
and Larken, Bo&longs;ton—Mr. Ha&longs;well, Vermont—Me&longs;&longs;rs. Rice, and
Edwards, Baltimore—Mr. W. P. Young, Charle&longs;ton.
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[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
Rowson, Mrs., 1762-1824 [1794], The fille de chambre (H. & P. Rice, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf327].
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