“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

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

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.

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

“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.

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“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,

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

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.