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

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

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,

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

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.”