R E li £ C C A; ort, I I'VliE F1LLE DE CHAMBSE. A NOYUL. BY >1 It S U O \V SON. r:i:uD asihbu-.v.v ; »tti«ic. iiosTo :\ HUNTED Von THE UUGKSELLERS. 133-2. IN MEMORY OF ALFRED HENRY HERSEY Gift of Maiy H Hcrsey who died Dece?nber IS, 1941 in her ninety- ninth year ZXS ^.i s>< .'••* PROPOSALS FOR PRINTING BY SUBSCRIPTION AN ORIGINAL NOVEL, IN four volumes, duod«cimo, dedicated, by oermiiiion, to Mrs. Bingham, entitled, TRIALS OF THE HUMAN HEART, By Mis. Rowlon, of the New Theatre, Phila- delphia, author of Victoria, It»QjnsxT.o*, Chaelotti, Fille de Chambre, Sec. Sic. << i . If there's a power above us, M (And that there is, all nature cries aloud " Thro' ailher works), he muit delight in virtue j •« And thatwhieh he delights in, mult bd happy." " The foul, fecur'd in Ker exiftence, fmilffS " At the drawn dagger, and deSes its point." COUD1T10NS-. I. The work to be printed with a neat type,. on gt>cd pa- er. II. Prici! to fubfc*ib?sfl, fo«r dollars, bound, one half to be paid at the time of iv.bfciioing. III. The fubferibsra' names will be prefixed as patrons to the undertaking. * # * Subfcriptions are received by the author, the corner cf Seventh and Chefnut-ftreets, Meflrs. Carey, Rice, and .D;>bfon, Philadelphia; Mr. Green, Annapolis; Meilrs. Allen, Berry, and S. Campbell, New- York ; Mefi'rs. "Weft, Thomas and Andrews, Blake, and Larkrn, Bofton ; Mr. Hafwell, Verm nt ; Meffrs. Rice, and Edwards, Balti- more ; Mr. W. P. Young, Charleiron. f^p Mrs. Rowfon begs leave to inform her friends ZTft the public in general, that on account of ths heavy ejrpcike attending the publication of this woik, it rannotbe" fetir tj> the prefs till fhe has obtained 300 fuWcribcrs. ' April 26.4 2arce • ly, perhaps, defcrved fo fever'e a puniihment: If it is a fic- tion, poetic juftice is not, we think, 'propeiiy diftributed. SAIi) CAREY HAS JUST PUBLISHED, A TWO SHEET MAP OF KENTUCKY, com- piled r>y, Elihu Barker. Price i dot. and %-%U, WAR ATLAS, containing maps of France, Germany, Spain, Italy, rtr- United Provinces, the Netherlands, and the Weft-Indies. Price, z dollars. Map of Ne.v-Jtrfey. .Half a dollar, Maps of Vermont, Connecticut, Delaware, Georgia — • price 3 8ths of a dollar. Ma y '• 173*4-. eodtf. '73t- A NEW NOVEL. T^HIS DAY IS PUBLISHED, (price 5/. neatly bound), by H. & P. RICE, Book- fellers, No. 50, Market-itreet, The FILLE DE CHAMBRE, A novel, by Mrs. liowfon, or'thc New Theatre, Philadelphia, author of Charlotte, the Inqui- litor, Victoria, &c. Sec. The higheft Wifh I ever formed has been, Juft co be phe'et above the reach of want, In the bleft medium between ihining ftate And the hard griping hand of penary. Enough for this, and if I have t?> lpare A little for my tuff 'ring feilow-creatures, 1 (hall have reached the hiighr of' my ambition. H. & P. Rice have jo.it opened, a very capital cclLctiDn of Book-, imported in the fhip Therefa from London. Auguft I. 1J>Qt±. v^w^a- REBECCA, OR THE FILLE DE CIIAMBRE A NOVEL, BY Mrs ROWSON The highest wish I ever form'd has been, Just to be plttc'd above the reach of want, In the blest medium between shining state, And the hard griping hand of penury. Enough for this, and, if I have to spare A little for my sufPring fellow creatures, I shall have reach'd.the height of my ambition. Third American edition. BOSTON. PRINTED TOR THE BOOKSELLERS- ]S31. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from Duke University Libraries http://www.archive.org/details/rebeccaorfilledeOOrows ^yo ^-i REBECCA, OR THE EILLE DE CHAMBRE. CHAPTER I. ' But who knows, my dear father,' cried Rebecca Littleton, laying her hand on that of her father, ' who knows but something yet may be done to reward a veteran grown gray in his country's service?' 'I hope there will, my child,' said Mr Lit- tleton ; ' and if there is not we must be con- tent, for his majesty cannot provide for all. I wish, my girl, it was in my power to con- vince him that I am still willing to fight for him, though the bread I eat from his bounty is but brown : but this poor stump,' looking at all that remained of his right arm, 'and this disabled leg,' stretching it out as well as he could, ' all my fighting days are over; I can only talk now, child.' ' But you have fought bravely once,' said Mrs 'Littleton, while a beam of exultation darted from her eyes. 4 REBECCA. 1 And after all,' cried Rebecca, l it is hard to be distressed for fifteen pounds.' It was a clear frosty evening, in the be- ginning of January, when, in a little cottage, on the seacoast of Lincolnshire, Mr Little- ton, an old superannuated lieutenant in the army, his wife, daughter, and two or three neighbors, were comfortably seated round a cheerful fire. The brown jug was just re- plenished, by the fair hands of Rebecca, and the song, the joke, and the tale went cheer- fully round, when an unwelcome though not unexpected visiter, made his appearance, and threw a damp over their harmless mirth. This was no other than their landlord's steward, who came to demand the rent, in paying which they had been, from various disagreeable reasons, more backward than usual ; it amounted to fifteen pounds, and the poor old man had no method whatever to raise the money. He had often made his distresses known to people in power, who had once styled themselves his friends, but never received any more than promises that something should be clone ; and hope had so often deceived him, that he now ceased to listen to her flattering voice, and was sink- ing into despondency, when the lovely Re- becca cheered him with the sentence at the beginning of the chapter. Rebecca was the youngest of seven chil- dren, and the only one who lived to years REBECCA. -5 of maturity. She was at this time just six- teen, and had combined in her person all the beauty of a Venus, with the simplicity of a Grace. She possessed a striking figure, just tall enough to be elegant; her shape was symmetry, and her countenance one of those which may safely be pronounced more than beautiful ; for, to the softest blue eyes, flaxen hair, and a complexion that outvied the lilies, was added such an inexpressible look of benevolence and candor, that it was impossible to see and not to love her. She had been taught by her father to read and write her own language correctly ; by her mother some little knowledge of the French, and by the vicar's lady who was extremely fond of her, she had learned to play, with a considerable degree of taste, on the guitar; but being educated entirely in a domestic way, and never having past the boundaries of her native village, except once or twice to a neighboring fair, there was about her such an air of timidity, that, by the unob- serving, might be mistaken for rustic bash- fulness. Though considered by her } r oung com- panions as the belle of the village, in her own opinion she was ever the meanest, the least worth}' of notice of any. Brought up in the strictest notions of the Protestant religion, such universal charity pervaded her soul, that she never suspected the worth and in- 1* 6 REBECCA. tegrity of her fellow creatures ; but implicit- ly believed that every one, who professed to love or esteem her, spoke the genuine feelings of their hearts. She harbored no thoughts which fear or shame prevented her revealing, for this rea- son, her actions and sentiments, were often open to the malevolent misconstructions of those, who, having art enough to conceal the real impulse of their natures, assume the semblance of those virtues, the reality of which is possessed only by the genuine chil- dren of simplicity. In giving the character of Mr Littleton, we require but few words; he was honest, possessed of valor, good sense, and a liberal education. Mrs Littleton was twenty years younger than her husband, and was, when he mar- ried her, remarkably beautiful. She was the daughter of an exciseman, and at a coun- try boarding school picked up a few showy accomplishments, but her mind had been to- tally neglected ; her sentiments were there- fore narrow and illiberal, and she possessed that kind of worldly knowledge, which ren- dered her suspicious of the integrity of ev- ery human being. The little knowledge Rebecca possessed of mankind, she had gleaned from a small but not ill furnished circulating library, to which, all the inhabitants of the village sub- REBECCA. 7 scribed. Her mind was highly tinctured with the romantic, but withal was enlight- ened with such a sense of honor, virtue and Eiety, that it was almost impossible to lead er to a wrong action ; yet there were times when the fortitude of Rebecca was vulner- able. . She could stand unmoved in a right cause against entreaty, persuasion, and even the severest threats; but she was not proof against the shafts of ridicule. We have said that Mrs Littleton had been handsome; indeed she was so still, being at this period about forty-seven years old ; for piercing black eyes, chestnut hair, and a flor- id 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 pleased with being told she looked like her eldest sister than being complimented with being the mother of so lovely a young woman; indeed she considered every compliment paid to her daughter as derogating something 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 whose intrinsic worth she had no idea. Rebecca could not sometimes help feeling the unkindness of her mother; but whatev- er thosefeelings were she suffered in silence ; no complaint ever escaped her lips, but she endeavored, by the mildest acquiescence in 8 REBECCA. her every wish, to conciliate that affection which she would have considered as her greatest comfort. ' It is hard, indeed, to be so distressed for fifteen pounds,' said Rebecca : ' 1 wish I could hit on any plan, by which my dear father might be relieved from his embarrass- ment. I have a great mind, if you will give me leave, to go tomorrow morning to lady Mary Worthy; I saw her last week at the vicar's, when she asked me to come and see her, and said she would be happy to render me any service in her power.' ' And do you really think she meant what she said?' cried Mrs Littleton. 'To be sure 1 do,' replied Rebecca. ' Then you are a fool,' retorted the moth- er, 'not to take it as it was designed, a mere compliment, which, she paid in respect to Mrs Alton, who, she saw, was rather partial to you.' ' Dear mamma,' said Rebecca, in an ac- cent of surprise, 'how can you think so? — There was no necessity for her to ask me, if she had not wished me to come, for, you know 1 am greatly her inferior.' 'Don't talk so silly, child ! Do you sup- pose 1 wish every body to come to my house whom politeness obliges me to ask?' ' I can only say, mamma, that 1 would nev- er ask any person whom I would not be real- ly glad to see when they came.' REBECCA. 9 • I think, my dear,' said Mr Littleton (' tho' 1 have the greatest respect imaginable for your opinion) that it would not be amiss for Rebecca to go to lady Mary; when she knows our situation she may be prevailed upon to request her son, sir George, to wait till we can make up the sum ; 1 will, in the mean time, write to my old friend iord An- trim, perhaps he may get my small pension enlarged." Mrs Littleton remained silent, and it was agreed between Rebecca and her father, t.hat the next morning she should visit Aud- ley-Park. At twelve o'clock, next morning, the love- ly Rebecca, habited in a plain white jacket, a straw hat, and black cardinal, sat out for Audley-Park. Lady Mary was alone in the library when she arrived, and, on the servant's announc- ing her name, desired her to be immediately shown up. ' Now this is really kind,' said she, with the most condescending smile, advancing to the blushing Rebecca, and taking her hand, led her to the sofa on which she had been sitting, and seated herself by her side: '1 Hatter myself you are come to spend the day with me. 1 • Indeed, madam,' replied Rebecca, ' J was not so presuming as to hope for such an honor : 1 came to request — to entreat" — 1 REBECCA. she faltered — the tears started in her eye.-? — lady Mary interrupted her. ' Speak out, my love ; do not be alarmed, but rest assured, I am ready to grant you any favor 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 — his income is but small — we are a twelvemonth in arrears in our rent — if you will kindly use your interest with sir George in our behalf — ' ' Surely, my dear, your agitation is un- necessary; I dare say my son has never thought of the rent.' 'No, madam, 1 do not suppose he has, it is so trifling; but Mr Villars, his steward, asked for it last night, and was very angry.' ' Indeed!' said her ladyship, 'was he an- gry r ' 1 do not mean to complain of Mr Y illars, madam, for he has been very good to us, and often h;is waited a month or two for his money. You know, madam, he is only do- ing his duty when he demands it; for was he remiss in collecting the rents, sir George would certainly be offended with him. 1 Lady Mary smiled at the eager manner in which Rebecca uttered this apology for Villars ; but it was a smile of the utmost satisfaction, it convinced her of the goodness of her young vister's heart. 'I think,' said she, 'if some friend could REBECCA. 1 1 be found who would advance this sum for your father — ' ' Alas ! madam, how is it to be repaid ? — unless, indeed,' — hesitating, blushing, and rising from her seat. 4 Unless what, my sweet girl ?' 1 Your ladyship would generously lend me the money, and take me into your ser- vice, that I might render myself useful till it is repaid; or, if you think me too presum- ing, madam, perhaps, you could recommend me to a family where there are children. — I am not, it is true, accustomed to servitude, but I will exert my poor abilities cheerfully, and hope my willingness to oblige, will, in some measure, compensate for my awkward- ness.' ' You are too good, and too lovely,' said lady Mary, ' for a servant ; but you shall, if you please, come and live with me. I will settle this little difficulty of your father's, and shall think myself obliged if you will accept a trifle annually for your pocket ex- penses.' She then drew forth her purse, and presented the delighted maid with a twenty-pound bank note. Grateful beyond the power of expression, Rebecca could only sink on her knees, press the hand of her benefactress to her lips, and smiling through the tears that gushed from her eyes, looked those thanks she found h impossible to utter. 12 REBECCA. 'Go, go, you are a simple girl I see,' said her ladyship, raising and pushing her from her; 'go, make your father happy, and, if you can obtain his assent to my proposal, tomorrow I will come and fetch you home; but I must have you mend that little heart of yours, it is a very poor one to go through the world with. 1 ' It means well, 1 replied Rebecca, trem- bling and confused, raising her timid eyes to the face of her benefactress. 'Aye, aye, 1 am sure of that, but it is too honest by half; besides, your intelligent countenance betraj r s its every emotion.' ' I hope, madam, it will never experience any that may not be revealed with impu- nity.' 'Ah! my dear,' said lady Mary, shaking her head, 'you will, no doubt, one day find that it will be for your interest to disguise its feelings as much as possible.' Rebecca then took her leave, and as she returned home, could not help thinking it very strange, and very inconsistent too, that sincerity should be deemed a virtue, and yet disguise be thought necessary to those who have much commerce with the world. ' Well, Miss, what success ?' cried Mrs Lit- tleton, as Rebecca entered the room ; ' I fan- cy you are convinced I was right, in sup- posing your vanity incited you to hope with- out foundation.' REBECCA. 1 3 'Indeed iny dear mamma, for once you were mistaken: lady Mary has received me kindly, and more than granted my request.' She then, with most bewitching simplici- ty, related her interview at the Park, while Mr Littleton looked exultingly happy ; but good mamma contracted her brow, and draw- ing herself up, as was her custom when any thing displeased her, said : ' 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 no- tions, of which, heaven knows she has plen- ty already. Besides, what do we know of lady Mary ? It is true she came down here last 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 case was exactly this: the late sir George Worthy had purchased this es- tate but a few months before his death, and as lady Mary was a woman of a very retired turn, the short time she remained in the country she visited but few families, and those without ceremony. Lady Mary was truly benevolent, but she performed those acts herself, and not unfrequenlly made the silence and secresy of persons benefitted, the only terms on which they were to hope a continuance of her favors. 2 1 4 REBECCA. She in general resided at a seat about twenty miles from London, to the end that she might scrutinize the conduct of a daugh- ter, who was married to a dissipated young nobleman, and who, though blessed with a mother whose example might have led her on to every laudable pursuit, was so entire- ly swallowed up in the vortex of folly and dissipation, that she had not time to attend to the essential duties of a wife, mother, and mistress of a family. In the place where lady Mary usually re- sided she was considered as a proud, unso- cial woman, by the middling kind of gen- try ; by her equals as an oddity, and by her dependants as something superiorly good ; she was by them beloved, respected, nay, almost adored as an angel of benevolence. But Mrs Littleton seldom gave people credit for virtues which she had not the pen- etration to discover, though she could easi- ly imagine them capable of practising deceit^ inhumanity, or almost any vice that can dis- grace human nature : she therefore thus con- tinued her discourse to her husband — 1 People are not always what they seem to be ; this lady may make very fair pro- mises, and when once the girl te in her power, treat her as a common servant. 1 beg, Mr Littleton, you will not let her go.' ' I am sorry, my dear love,' cried Mr Lit- tleton, ' to differ from you in my opinion con- REBECCA. 1 $ corning lady Mary's oiler; I think our dear girl will be highly honored in her friend- ship and protection. You know, my dear, if she should find herself unhappy, she has a home, however homely, where she will be sure of being received with transport. I am growing old ; when I am gone all is gone : it would be some comfort for me to reflect in my last moments, that my dear Rebecca was not likely to feel the pangs of want. — The small annuity 1 have purchased for you will supply the necessaries of life to one, but not both of you. 1 am as unwilling as you can be to part with her; but it is neces- sary she should be in some way of earning a support, and, I trust she has sense and for- titude sufficient to withstand every tempta- tion to evil.' 'Oh! my father,' cried Rebecca, taking his hand, 'you may, indeed, depend on a -child whose heart your precepts has trained in the love of virtue. Melhinks, should I •ever be tempted to si ray into the paths of vice, your blest image will rise to my imagi- nation ; methinks 1 shall hear your persua- sive voice say, ' Rebecca, wilt thou break thy father's heart?' Will it be possible, then, for me to proceed? Oh! no; the re- membrance of you, like a talisman, will shielc] me from every danger.' 'Why, how the girl talks!' said Mrs Lit- tleton : 'I declare she learns these things 16 REBECCA. out of the book she is forever reading; for 'tis not the language of the world ; there is nobody hardly can understand her.' ' It is the language of the heart,' replied the father. ' Well, sir, you are to act as you please ; but if any ill comes of it, don't blame me; don't S3y I drove her from home.' ' My dear, you talk of things which never could enter my mind. I know you will al- ways be happy to have your child with you, strange if you are not so amiable as she is! But, as I said just now, I am growing old, I cannot remain much longer with you, and perhaps you may marry again.' ' Marry again ! Mr Littleton you are sure- ly trying to vex me. Ah! my dearest life, when I lose you I shall lose all my happi- ness ; the rest of my life will be a continued scene of mourning; there is a degree of in- delicacy in a woman marrying a second time, it is an insult to the memory of the first husband, of which I could not have be- lieved you thought me capable. It has hurt me more than 1 can express,' and she burst into tears. 'All this now is nonsense,' said the old man, taking hold of her hand ; ' for my part I see nothing in a woman's having two hus- bands ; it is naturally to be expected when she is left a lovely widow in the prime of life, as you are now.' REBECCA. 1 i 'No indeed, papa,' said Rebecca, inno- cently, 'there is nothing in it at all ; it is 36 common as can be.' ' Hold your tongue, Miss ; do not talk so unfeelingly of the loss of your poor dear father.' 'God send,' cried Rebecca, clasping her hands fervently, ' that for these many, many years, I may not experience so heavy an affliction as the loss of my revered parent: it would be a heavy stroke to us both, my dear mamma, but to me irreparable ; for, though you might find another husband, where should poor Rebecca find another fa- ther ?' she turned away, covering her face with her hand, and sobbed aloud. After much altercation, it was at length agreed, that Rebecca should accept lady Mary's offer, and that Mr Littleton should himself go to the Park, that afternoon, to lhank her for her bounty, and to request her kindest attention to the welfare and peace of his darling Rebecca. Lady Mary received him with great po- liteness, and, after chatting some time with him, and assuring him of her protection to his daughter, she thus addressed him : ' 1 feel myself much interested in the hap- piness of Rebecca, and for that reason, tho T 1 mean to make her my companion, I shall not introduce her into company, or give her a taste for expensive pleasures. When I * 1 8 REBECCA. have visiters, her meals will be served in her own apartment, when 1 am alone, which is the greater part of my time, she will eat and sit with me, reading, working, or amus- ing herself, as inclination shall prompt. \ I will confess 1 have an interested motive for this conduct. 1 have a son, Mr Little- ton, the last remaining branch of two noble families; 1 am sensible his heart is not in- vulnerable, and I am fully convinced that your daughter is the most lovely woman I ever beheld ; but all charming as she is (par- don me, sir, it is my duty, in this point, to be sincere) I should not choose to see her the wife of my son, and I have too high a regard for her to expose her to trials to which her fortitude may be unequal. I do not scruple to say it would hurt my pride to see her his wife; but it would wound my sensibility to see her his mistress. My house at Twickenham is large; one part of it is seldom visited by any bodj r but myself; here 1 mean to order her an apartment, and whenever 1 expect sir George, I shall request her to keep within it: however, as he is a very gay young man, I do not see him very often, and when he does come, he does not stay above two or three hours ; therefore, Mr Littleton, let Rebecca know this, if she can bear solitude sometimes, and in general, retirement, I shall esteem myself happy to have her with me. If she dislikes the plan, REBECCA. 1 'J do not fear to inform me. I remember I was once young myself, and shall not be at all offended if I find youth and beauty unable to submit implicitly to the caprices of age. One thing more I must mention : I shall reg- ularly visit Audley-Park once a year ; Re- becca shall always accompany me, and as we shall be out of all danger at those times, every amusement that I can procure she may depend upon enjoying.' Mr Littleton was a man of sense: he was pleased with lady Mary's frankness, and readily conceived, that the proposed retired situation of his child would be the only thing to shield her from those snares and tempta- tions to which a young woman is subject, who, possessed of beauty, wit, and sensibil- ity, has neither rank nor fortune to recom- mend her to the serious attention of those who might pretend to admire, while they lead the unsuspecting innocent a victim to vice and seduction. He returned home, and maugre the ill grounded suspicion of his wife, the next day but one was fixed on for the lovely Rebecca to attend her patroness, and enter on an en- tire new course of life. 20 REBECCA. CHAPTER II. Lady Mary was not an early riser; JRe- becca had been accustomed from her earli- est infancy to leave her bed at six o'clock; she had, therefore, risen at her usual hour, the morning after her removal, and finding herself likely to be alone till ten o'clock, went into the library, and selected from among the many books there, sir Charles Grandison, for her morning amusement ; the interesting pen of Richardson had so entire- ly charmed her attention, that she thought not of time till lady Mary made her appear- ance. 'You have been reading, my love,' said she ; ' are you fond of novels ?' ' 1 like these entertaining histories, mad- am; they always command my attention, and awaken my sensibility.' ' It is dangerous, Rebecca, to indulge that sensibility too much ; besides, my dear, you must not give way to an excess of feeling, when the tale you read is only a fiction.' 'A fiction! madam; you surprise me. I thought they had been the histories of per- sons who had really existed.' ' Far from it, child : human nature can never rise to such a pitch of excellence as this sir Charles Grandison is represented to be ; nor will you among your own sex, be REBECCA. 21 able to find a woman like Miss Byron: be- sides, if you accustom yourself to think these high wrought scenes real, you will find the actual occurrences of human life so flat and insipid, that the very disappointment will render you disgusted with the world.' Rebecca listened with attention, but still in her heart she thought, surely these ami- able characters, these interesting scenes, are not all fiction. I shall certainly at some future period, meet with men and women as amiable as these are represented. She nour- ished this idea in silence, and dwelt on the delightful vision, till at last too fatally con- vinced, that to be perfect was not compati- ble with mortality. She wept over the er- rors of her fellow creatures, and lamented that reasonable beings in a world abounding with every comfort, should so ungratefully dash the cup of felicity from their lips, and eagerly drink of that which was strongly tinctured with gall. It is easily in our own power to be happy, said she; but to render ourselves really miserable requires much art, contrivance, and soliciiude; for, before we can be completely unhappy, we must forsake the commandments of our all-wise Creator; we must distrust his merciful prov- idence, and render ourselves totally unwor- thy his heavenly protection. But I am speaking of her maturer reflec- tions, and forgetting that she is but just en- 22 REBECCA. tered upon the grand theatre of life. And to return : The time was now nearly elapsed which lady Mary usually spent in Lincolnshire, which was two months before and one after Christmas, at which period she enlivened the hearts of all sir George's tenants, made the smile of tranquillity sit on the counte- nance of age, and softened the couch of pain and sickness. And is not this the real incense to be of- fered at so glorious a season? Will it not go up as a sweet smelling sacrifice before the Most High? Oh ! surely it will; the benev- olent heart will ever be acceptable to him whose heavenly benevolence led him to suf- fer an ignominious death that we might live forever in glory unfading, in bliss unchange- able. It was with infinite pain Rebecca parted from her father; nor did he experience less anguish. 'God preserve you my child,' said he, embracing her, 'remember the happi- ness of your poor father depends on your well doing.' 'Good bye, Rebecca,' said the mother; 'God bless you child, be careful, circum- spect, and wary ; suspect every one of a de- sign on you till you arc convinced of the contrary. You must think all men knaves, and all women treacherous, and then you will avoid many troubles. Trust no one : REBECCA. 23 keep your thoughts to yourself; if you are unhappy, bear your sorrow in silence, for ho one will pity you if you tell it; the hap- py will only laugh at you, and the misera- ble have enough to do to feel for their own afflictions. If you are happy, be silent also ; for if you boast of your felicity, some will ridicule the scource whence it flows, and others will, from envy, endeavor to inter- rupt that happiness they cannot themselves enjoy; Keep your thoughts to yourself; have few acquaintances, fewer intimates, and no bosom friends. Friendship is a very pretty word, but there are very few true friends existing in the world. Remember what I say ; the world is full of deceit ; and silence and suspicion are the only things to secure you from its effects.' ' But suspicion is incompatible with Chris- tianity,* said Rebecca; 'we are taught to judge not, that we be not judged.' Mrs Littleton looked at her daughter with an air of surprise, but remained silent. La- dy Mary pressed her hand, and led her to the chaise. Rebecca bowed to her parents, and before she was from distance deprived of the pleasure of beholding them, the tears effectually hid them from her view. Their journey was pleasant: the novelty of the objects she encountered in a short time diverted her ideas, and before she arrived at Twickenham she was quite tranquil and 24 REBECCA. happy ; nay, she was even more cheerful than lady Mary had ever seen her before* It was late when they alighted; but the elegance of the house, the extent of the gar- dens, and the taste in which they were laid out, was full and pleasurable amusement to Rebecca the next morning. Her own apart- ment commanded a view of the Thames and its delightful banks ; she thought she should never be weary of standing at the window. 'I will write my father an ample account of this charming place,' said she ; but when she had rambled over all the pleasure grounds, alas ! thought she, it will be impossible to give him an adequate idea of its beauties. 1 must even request him to come next sum- mer, and judge of it himself. For eight months, happiness, pure, unal- loyed happiness, took up her abode in the bosom of Rebecca. She read, she worked, walked, or played on her guitar alternately, as inclination led, and during that time she had been confined to her apartment but twice, once when lady Ossiter visited her mother, and once when sir George was ex- pected to dinner. Time now flew on the softest pinions with Rebecca ; every rising day brought increase to her happiness; the tenderness and affec- tion of lady Mary hourly increased ; she had discovered in her gentle companion REBECCA. c 2o great taste for music, and a dawning of ge- nius for drawing. These are talents,' said her ladyship, ^jhat ever afford a fund of innocent amuse- ment to the possessor, and it is certainly my duty, by cultivating them, to compen- sate, in some measure, for the cheerful ac- quiescence Rebecca shows to every desire of mine, particularly in submitting, without repining, to a recluse life, which most young persons, at her time of life, and possessed of her beauty and vivacity, would think cru- el in the extreme.' Lady Mary bad received an education befitting her rank, and had not neglected the means of improving a very elevated un- derstanding, and a bright natural genius, by refusing attention to the ample means of cul- tivation which fortune held out; on the con- trary she made herself mistress of the fine arts, music and painting, and to the most delicate and judicious choice of the works of fancy, she added an extensive knowledge of history and natural philosophy. To her, therefore, the cultivation of such a mind as Rebecca's was a source of the most refined pleasure. She saw its beau- ties daily expand under her attentive care, with the same delight as the lapidary dis- covers the crust that envelops the rough di- amond give way to his labors, and the ines- 3 2<3 REBECCA. limable jewel assuming a degree of brillian- cy that promises well to reward his industry. But though the talents of Rebecca were thus easily drawn forth, and the rusticity of her manners began to assume a more pol- ished air, it was impossible to alter the sim- plicity and purity of her mind. Whenever her generous patroness endeavored to give her some idea of the manners of the world, she manifested such a degree of sweet incre- dulity, when informed of vices of which she had no idea, and was so ready to form ex- cuses for errors of which she imagined few could be guilty, and none intentionally, that lady Mary was at length assured that noth- ing but experience would convince the in- nocent maid, that every bosom was not as free from guilt and treachery as her own. 1 My dear Rebecca,' said she to her one day, ' I will no longer labor to inform you of the vices and follies of mankind, the to- tal ignorance of which seems to constitute your chief felicity. Long my sweet girl, may you retain that primitive simplicity of heart; it shall be my care to leave you at my death an independence, to prevent your charming unsuspecting nature from buying experience at so dear a rate, as an intercourse with, or a dependance upon the smiles of an unfeel- ing, misjudging world.' Thus lady Mary determined; but, alas! like too many others, she deferred adding REBECCA. 27 this codicil to her will from day to day, till a sudden accident put it entirely out of her power. The autumn was now advancing, and Re- becca looked forward to the time when she should revisit her native village. ' And how will my dear father be delighted,' said she, ' to see and hear my improvements ! To be sure there is no harpsichord in his cottage ; but he will surely come to the Park, and then I will surprise him by playing some of his favorite airs: my mother too, 1 will request lady Mary to let me give her that piece of gray lustring she so kindly brought me from town last week. 1 will buy her also a new cloak and bonnet; she will bo the gayest of all our neighbors;' then taking out her port folio, she selected some of her best drawings, and in her imagination, arranged them round her father's little rustic parlor. Lady Mary was that morning gone to Windsor on a visit to an old acquaintance, and Rebecca, having amused herself in her own apartment some time, in the manner al- ready mentioned, at length took up her gui- tar, and opening a window which looked in- to a retired part of the garden, and into which darted the mild rays of a September sun — she tuned her instrument, and began to sing a littlevsong, which she had learned but a few- days before : it was of consequence a favor- 28 REBECCA. ite from its novelty, more than from its real beauty. While Rebecca was singing, she had been so intent on her music, that .she had not ob- served any body enter the part of the gar- den to which her window looked ; but on laying down her guitar and turning her eyes that way, she perceived a young gentleman, in a riding dress, leaning against a tree, and gazing intently at her. The natural roses that played on her cheeks were heightened by this discovery. She arose hastily and was going to pull down the window, when the young gentleman advanced with a look of the most earnest supplication: ' Stay one moment, angelic creature !' said he, 'and tell me if iy-hat I now behold is reality or an illusion? Art thou a spirit of light, or the loveliest human being the earth bears.?' 'Sir! 1 cried Rebecca, with a voice and look of surprise, ' did you speak to me?' and she involuntarily suspended the hand that was raised to shut the window. 'Oh ! speak again, thou fairest of thy sex,' said he. 'Tell me, art thou indeed, a mor- tal?' ' To be sure I am,' said Rebecca, smiling; 'what else should I be?' ' And dost thou live here ?' 1 Sometimes,' replied Rebecca, with more REBECCA. 29 reserve, beginning to perceive the impropri- ety she was guilty of in talking to a stranger. ' And cannot you either descend into the garden, or suffer me to visit the apartment that contains so much loveliness?' ' I can do neither, 1 said Rebecca, gravely, and she again raised her hand to draw down the sash. 'O! stay an instant,' said he 'and tell me, all angel as thou art! did thy heart ever vi- brate with the soft emotions of love?' ' Sure, sure, it has ! else I were ungrate- ful,' she replied innocently. ' 1 love my pa- rents ; I love my lady : yes heaven is my witness, how much, how fervently, I love her!' She laid her hand on her heart, and raised her eyes with a look of grateful af- fection. 'Enchanting simplicity! but do you love no other?' 'Heaven forbid! 1 love all mankind.' ' But no one in particular?' 'No.' Her uplifted hand fell from the sash, and her eyes were cast, first on the young gentleman, then on the ground. 'Could you love me, sweetest?' 'Methinks not, for you are rudely inquis- 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 mv 3* 30 REBECCA. duty to forgive you, and pray for your hap- piness.' 'Then you will not think of me with in- difference?' 'That would he impossibly' said she, in a softened accent, as she pulled down the win- dow. But he h( fird not what she said, and being no longer able to gaze on her, or listen to her voice, he retired from the garden in no enviable state. Sir George Worthy was a young man of violent passions. At a very early age he had been made his own master, and like most young men of independent fortune, from unlimited indulgence, was led to be- lieve, that the most trifling occurrence which thwarted his inclination, was an insupporta- ble affliction; it was therefore a very great mortification to him to be obliged to quit the garden in such a state of suspense, especial- ly as he did not know who the young lady was : however, he resolved to stay at his mother's house a iew days (a favor which he had never deigned before since the death of his father) for he imagined this fair visit- ant would of course make her appearance at dinner, and, that after the first formal in- troduction, he should have the superlative satisfaction of enjoying her company in an unreserved way. When lady 5\lary arrived she was much surprised to find her son in the drawing- REBECCA. 31 room ; but as she had not the remotest idea of his having been long there, after the first salutations were past, she went to her own apartment, and dispatched Mrs Harley, her .woman, to inform Rebecca, that, as she had company, she would order her dinner to be sent up, and should not expect to see her in the dining parlor. Harley was not satisfied with simply de- livering her message, but also delivered her own sentiments on the subject. \ Heaven keep me from pride, 1 said she. 'One must be blind, indeed, not to see the cause of my lady's confining you in this man- ner : mercy on us, as if flesh and blood with- out a title was not as good as flesh and blood with one'. Marry come up, and I were to judge, 1 think you are to the full as good as sir George, mayhap better. All is not gold that glitters. 1 warrant ye, if sir George was once to see j'our sweet face, he would think a title well bestowed.' 1 1 do not understand you, my good Har- ley,' said Rebecca, with a look of the utmost simplicity. 'O, it is all very well, Miss; if you are satisfied I am ; only I say it is a shame to shut you up so whenever sir George comes.' ' Sir George !' cried Rebecca, eagerly ; ' is he her v e?' ' Yes, Miss Becky, he is, and that is the reason — ' 32 REBECCA. ' Hold, Harley ; my lady's commands are sufficient for me without any reason alleg- ed : but pray how long has he been here ?' ' He arrived soon after my lady left home, and amused himself in the garden till a few moments before her return.' "Tis very well,' said Rebecca, 'your mistress, perhaps, may want you. Do not let me detain you. 1 Harley muttered something about insen- sible, and left the room. Lady Mary, having adjusted her dress, repaired to the dining-parlor, and sent the butler to inform her son that dinner was served. With a palpitating heart sir George obeyed the summons; but how great was his surprise and disappointment, on entering the room, to see no person there but his mother, and the cloth laid but for two! His chagrin betrayed itself in his countenance. 'Do we dine by ourselves, madam?' said he, somewhat confused. 'That is an odd question, George,' said her ladyship. ' 1 thought you were well ac- quainted with the recluse life I lead, and therefore could not expect to meet with com- pany at my table.' * Why that is true,' said he, with an assum- ed air of indifference, 'but I thought some- times a neighbor might drop in.' He plainly perceived there was some- thing of a mystery, and he was loo much a REBECCA. 33 man of the world not to veil, as much as pos- sible, the ardent desire he felt to penetrate it; he therefore partook of the repast pro- vided for his mother, and when the cloth was removed, informed her he intended spending a week or trn days with her, previous to her departure for Lincolnshire. Lady Mary was rather surprised at his proposal ; but having long wished for an op- portunity to converse with her son on a sub- ject near her hesrt, 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 pro- posed to beg die title of carl of Chatterton, in reversion, he being the only male branch remaining of the family; she therefore sat- isfied herself by sending an affectionate note to Rebecca, briefly informing her of the cause that would occasion their separation for a few days, and assuring her she would visit her apartment the next morning if op- portwrtity offered. Rebecca sighed as she read the note; but she flattered herself it was a sigh of pleas- ure for the happiness her benefactress would enjoy in the company of her son. In the course of the evening lady Mary introduced the subject nearest her heart, and endeavored to divine the real opinion sir George entertained of his cousin's person, merit and accomplishments. 34 REBECCA. He frankly acknowledged her a very amiable woman, a woman every way calcu- lated to make the marriage slate happy ; * but,' continued he, 'pardon me, my dear madam, if 1 say, 1 do not think myself by any means worthy the hand of such a wo- man. J am wild, and have seen so mnch of elegant, refined beauty, that it is no longer an object of admiration, lean look on my cousin Eleanor, all lovely as she is, without the least emotion, except what proceeds from the affection 1 bear her as a near and worthy relation; but this is not the kind of affection necessary to form a happy marriage. My heart has ever been unmoved by real pas- sionate love, and 1 do believe if ever it is en- snared, it will be by the pure charms of na- ture, unadulterated by art: 1 declare to you the charming naivete of unaffected innocence would be to me a thousand times more capti- vating, than ajl the charms of an elegant ac- complished woman of fashion.' It is impossible to describe the astonish- ment of Lady Mary upon this unexpected declaration of her son ; it kept her for some moments silent. ' It is well,' said she, men- tally, 'that I took those precautions in re- gard to Rebecca ; she is exactly the woman to suit his taste, and I should have experi- enced the mortification of seeing my son re- ject a title and splendid fortune, and ally himself to obscurity,' REBECCA 35 ' Perhaps, George,' said she, smiling, 'you have somewhere met with a woman whom you think to be possessed of those captivat- ing charms.' 'O! no,' said he, carelessly; 'but why should we talk on this subject now ? Elea- nor and myself are both young enough yet. Let me see a little more of the world : it is more than probable 1 may not be the man of her choice.' 'She will never have her father's consent to marry any other; nor do I think he ever would forgive a step of that nature; nor can 1 say, George, that I should easily overlook your preferring any other woman to Elea- nor.' ' Upon my soul, my dear mother, this is a most ridiculous idea ! In the name of com- mon sense, why are two persons, who expe- rience nothing more than indifference to- wards each other, to be chained together, and seal their own misery, to gratify the in- clinations of those, who, though they have a right to our ultnost respect and obedience, assume an undue authority when they en- deavor to control us in a point so very deli- cate as the choice of a companion for life. I see you are offended, my dear mother; let me entreat you to pardon my sincerity. Be- lieve me your happiness is the first wish of my heart, and to promote it shall be the whole study of my life. It is to prevent you 36 REBECCA. from future pain that I speak thus, for, alas \ what anguish must seize the heart of a pa- rent who, having forced a beloved child in- to a loathed marriage, sees him plugged in misery, nay, perhaps in guilt, from which no power can extricate him : but let us not part in anger,' continued he, rising, and tak- ing his mother's hand. ' Be asssnred, should inclination ever prompt me to a union with lady Eleanor, every transport I experienced will be heightened by the thought that it in- creased your felicity ; but should it not, let not your displeasure embitter thelifeofa son who loves you with the truest. affection.' He then kissed her cheek, and wished her a good night. ' He talks reasonably,' said lady Mary, as he left the room ; ' but.it would grieve me to see the family of Harcourt sink into oblivion, when it is in his power to perpetuate both its name and title.' Sir George had previously given his valet Le Brim an order to make inquiry obliquely concerning the fair recluse, whom he had seen at the window in the garden, and now retired with the eager expectation of hear- ing something of her. ' Well, Le Brun,' said he, ' what news ? — Can you learn whether the fair spirit of the garden haunts it continually, or only some- times.' 4 Oui, Monsieur,' said Le Brun, ' I did ask REBECCA. 37 Mademoiselle Harley. Oh ! she be one ver pret voman ; she never refuse me any thing. She be von jolie petite fille.' 'Good Monsieur,' said sir George, 'defer the account of your own success till another opportunity, and inform me of what you have heard.' ' Dat be vat I vas intend, my lor. Made- moiselle Harley tell me dat my lady, your moder, keep von ver charmante demoiselle, to play, to read, to sing to her when she be alone; but ven your onor, or any company be com, my lady do shut her up.' ' And who does Harley say she is?' ' Oh ma foi ! she be de daughter of a pau- vre old man, who vas one soldier. He live in Lincolnshire; de call her Mademoiselle Rebecca — ' ' And does she constantly occupy those apartments in the south wing?' 'Oui, Monsieur, oui, and she valk every morning in de garden by de time de sun be up.' This was enough for sir George. He dis- missed Le Brun, and determined to rise by times himself, and join her in the garden. In the mean time Rebecca's thoughts were fully employed in reflecting on the unexpect- ed incident which had thrown her in the way of the very man whom it was her inter- est to wish to avoid. ' It was unfortunate,' said she, ' very unfortunate, that I should 4 38 REBECCA. have opened the window at that lime; if la- dy Mary was to know I had seen and con- versed with her son, it would make her very unhappy, and yet how shall 1 ever be able to face her after having, though involunta- rily, transgressed the only restriction she thought fit to lay upon me? Will it not be best to watch the moment when she retires to her apartment, to go to her, candidly con- fess the accidental rencounter, and endeavor to deprecate the anger 1 must otherwise ex- pect? Yes, it will certainly be right; my kind generous lady Mary shall never have occasion to accuse me of want of sincerity. 1 When she had formed this resolution, her thoughts again reverted to the elegant, ac- complished manner, and fine person of sir George; again, in idea, she recalled every sentence he had uttered, and innocently indulged the fascinating reflection, unsus- pecting of the consequence. The clock had just struck eleven, when she heard the footstep of lady Mary on the stairs. She heard her enter her dressing- room, and then, with palpitating heart, pre- sented herself at the door of the apartment, and, by a gentle lap, demanded admittance. Mrs Harley opened the door; pale, trem- bling, her eyes cast on the ground, the agi- tated Rebecca entered, and courtesying, in a manner in which the soul seemed to boVr REBECCA. 39 more than the body, attempted an apology for the untimely intrusion. ' Come in, my love, 1 said lady Mary, then looking at her lace, she continued, ' are you not well, Rebecca, or has any thing alarmed you?' ' Your goodness, madam, overpowers me,' said she, seating herself; 'my mind is not quite at ease, and, if you have a few mo- ments to spare, I should be glad to commun- icate something to you, without any witness to our conversation.' 'Harley,' said her ladyship, ' 1 shall not go to bed just yet, and will ring when 1 want you.' (Harley retired.) ' And now, my dear, what is this mighty secret? 1 taking her hand. 'I am come, my dearest lad}',' said she, rising, 'to inform you, that I have, though undesignedly, broken your injunctions, and incurred your displeasure ; let me therefore, madam, expiate my offence, by being ban- ished from this delightful place, and from your truly valuable society. Send me back, madam, to my humble home; but, oh! 1 conjure you, do not deprive me of your friendship and good opinion, which I value infinitely more than any other earthly good. 1 'You surprise me, my dear child! I am at a loss to comprehend your meaning. — from the whole tenor of your conduct, since you have been here, I am convinced, that if vou have offended me, the fault was invol- 40 REBECCA. untary indeed. Come, come, do not loi !: so grave; I suppose this amazing fault, when revealed, will be discovered very trifling. You have let my favorite canary out of its cage, or you have broken one of the large India jars.' ' Ah ! my dear lady, worse, infinitely worse, I have seen sir George. Now pray do not look angry ; indeed, he is the first and only person I have seen since my arriv- al here; nor did I seek the interview.' 'Do not alarm yourself thus, my love,' Said lady Mary, obliging her to sit down again. 'Come, compose your spirits, and tell me sincerely how it happened, what pas- sed between you, and what you think of my son.' 'Oh! I think him," 1 said Rebecca, 'the most engaging young man I ever saw ; he has such a manly look, yet such a soft air and voice.' ' Indeed !' said her ladyship gravely, ' and pray what might he say to you ?' 'Ah! madam, it would be vanity in me to repeat all he said, he spoke so many fine things.' ' It is well ; I see you still retain that can- dor and sincerity for which I ever loved you. I am fully satisfied that this interview was not sought on your side, nor can I suppose it was on his. You seem to entertain a very favorable idea of sir George, and 1 make no REBECCA. 41 doubt but he does the same 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 themselves with their in- feriors, yet they will leave no art unassayed to awaken sensibility in the heart of every woman whom they affect to admire. Will you make me one promise, Rebecca, and without reserve, ever remember to keep it inviolate.' ' Dear madam, do you, can you doubt me ? Speak your commands; I am sure they will not be severe, and when 1 disobey you, from I hat moment may peace and joy be strangers to my bosom.' ' Then promise me, my dear, that you will never, directly or indirectly, listen to any overtures of love which sir George may make, or give him the least encouragement; and while you keep the promise sacred, may every earthly happiness surround you; and should you ever feel inclined to break it, re- flect 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,' said she, 'while 1 solemnly protest that never, while I retain my senses, will I listen to any profession of love whatever from your son. The grateful affection I bear towards your ladyship will prompt me to keep this vow inviolable, hacj 4* 42 REBECCA. I no other motive 5 but, my dear lady, I have two powerful motives for never infringing it. The first, I trust, you will believe is an invin- cible repugnance inherent in my bosom to every thing derogatory to the dignity and honor of my sex, and which will urge me to treat with scorn every overture that tended to the injury of either. And for the other pardon me, madam, I feel my inferiority, nay, feel it so powerfully, that I will never meanly creep into a family who would think themselves dishonored by the alliance.' 'My dear good girl,' said lady Mary, em- bracing her, ' I honor you for this spirited reply. You would not dishonor any family ; but 1 never was a friend to unequal matches ; they are seldom productive of much felicity ; besides, my son is the destined husband of another.' Rebecca heard her in silence, sighed, and was preparing to leave the apartment. ' Stay, my love,' said lady Mary, ' though you have charmed me by the frankness and candor of your behavior, I am not satisfied but George will attempt to see you again ; shall 1 request my dear girl will keep entirely in her apart- ment tomorrow, and avoid going to the win- dows, and in the evening a chaise shall be ordered to the back garden gate. My own man, James, shall attend you, and you may proceed one stage on your journey towards Lincolnshire that night. James will take REBECCA. 43 particular care of you, and see you safe to your father's house, where you can pay them a short visit, until I join you, which will be in about three weeks' time.' She then put a heavy purse into her hand, bade her consider it as her own, and then wished her a good night — but calling her back as she was about to leave the room, she desired her to be careful of what she said to Har- ley, and in particular to avoid mentioning her intended journey. 'Is it pride,' said Rebecca, as she retired to rest, ' or is it a lender wish for my felicity, that actuates lady Mary? Surely it is the latter. Her liberality, her condescending affection, all tend to convince me it is my happiness alone she is studious to preserve ; and never shall it be said that Rebecca Lit- tleton, like the ungrateful viper, stung the friendly bosom that warmed her into life: for surely the cultivation of our mental fac- ulties, the enlargement of our ideas is a sec- ond, nay, a better life than what we receive from nature ; and this life I have received from my revered benefactress. What de- lightful sources of pleasurable amusement has she opened to my view ! How inestima- ble the benefits I have received from her hand!' Then her thoughts reverting to sir George, she continued, 'Surely the son of such a mother must be all that is good and amiable, and it is not infringing my vow to 44 REBECCA. love him as a brother. Ah ! how happy will be the partner he shall choose, nay, that he has chosen; for did not his mother say his destiny was lixed ? May their felicity be as lasting as their lives! May every earthly blessing crown them! May heaven shower 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 soul in its nightly ad- dress to the Throne of grace, she blended the name of sir George with that of his moth- er, and sunk into that peaceful kind of slum- ber, which only innocence, like hers, can enjoy. CHAPTER III. Small was the rest sir George enjoyed that night, and soon as the morning peeped into his chamber he left his bed, and re- paired to that part of the garden where Le Brun had informed him Rebecca usually walked ; but in 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 so scrupulous was she of her lady's injunctions, that she kept the window-shutters closed on the side next the garden, and only opened REBECCA. 45 one that looked on a grass plot thai faced lady Mary's apartment. Till near nine o'clock sir George walked in the hope of seeing Rebecca ; but finding those hopes frustrated, he returned, highly disappointed, to his apartment, and prepared to meet his mother at breakfast. 'She has not been out, Le Brun,' said he, as his valet was tying his hair ; ' 1 have walk- ed three hours for nothing.' 'Oh! Monsieur will have bon stomache to his dejeuner.' 'Damn the breakfast,' said sir George. ' What could keep the lovely girl from walk- ing as usual this morning?' ' She be no wake yet,' said Le Brun. ' Ma- demoiselle Harley tell me she no ring her bell yet.' 'Then Harley attends her?' 'She want ver lit attendance ; she be von amiable.' 'But Harley answers her bell?' 'Oui, Monsieur, oui, no oder do go to her chamber.' Sir George started from his seat, wrote a few hasty lines, and bidding Le Brun give them to Harley with five guineas, desired they might be delivered into the hands uf Rebecca. When v Harley attended our heroine at breakfast, she laid the letter on the table. 46 REBECCA. 'And what is this, Mrs Harley ?' said she, taking it up. ' A letter, Miss, which I was desired to de- liver inlo your hands.' ' From whom does it come?' ' A sweet rich gentleman, my dear young lady, who having once seen you, wishes again to enjoy that satisfaction — From sir George Worthy.' 'Well then, my good Harley, take it to your lady, desire her to read it, and dictate the answer she would wish me to send; or stay, I will enclose it in a blank cover, and you deliver it to the person who intrusted it to your care.' ' Why, surely,"' said Harley, ' surely, Miss Bock} 7 , you do not reflect oh what you are doing! Sir George is a man of fortune, a handsome, agreeable man. 1 ' His beauty, to me, Mrs Harley, would bejiis last recommendation. Besides, I hope ever to make it an invariable rule of my con- duct to receive no letters from men, without the sanction of those who are better judges of what is proper than 1 can be; but, as it will be needless to trouble my lady with this, give me that sheet of paper from the writing desk.' Harley gave her the paper; she folded up the letter, sealed it, and gave it to her. ' But you have not directed it, Miss.' ' There is no necessity for directing it. REBECCA. 47 Do you deliver it to the person who gave it to your care.' ' Ah ! Miss, I think you will repent, for Le Brun tells rue sir George loves you to dis- traction. He has been walking in the gar- den these three hours in hopes of meeting you.' 1 I am vastly obliged to him,' said Rebec- ca, smiling, while her cheeks assumed a deeper glow, and her eyes a brighter lustre. ( 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, or I were richer — ' ' Ah ! Miss, love levels all distinctions. — Sir George would think himself the person obliged. He told Le Brun you were the only woman he ever thought on with par- tiality.' 'Mrs Harley,' said Rebecca, opening a drawer of a small cabinet, 'do me the favor to accept these pieces of lace; I never had an opportunity before of giving you some small token of my gratitude for your kind attention to me since I have been in this fam- ily. But, good Mrs Harley, you must nev- er talk to me in this manner again. 1 beg you will not tell me any thing that Le Brun says ; 1 have no desire — that is — it is not proper — I must not listen to such discourse. 7 Harley, simpering, withdrew, and the in- nocent Rebecca little imagined she had be- 18 REBECCA. trayed a secret which she ought to have guarded with the utmost care ; nay, she even did not think that her heart was the least in- terested in sir George's welfare, any other- wise than, as the son of her benefactress, it was her duty to rejoice in his felicity. The remainder of the day Rebecca spent in arranging her clothes, &c. for her jour- ney; nor did she forget, among her music, to put the new song. ' It is certainly ex- tremely pretty,' said she, and she sung it to herself all the day. Towards the evening lady Mary rang for Harley. 1 Harley,' said she, ' I think you have a brother at Windsor. I have ordered a chaise for Miss Littleton to take a ride this evening, therefore, if you like, you may go with her. Be set down at your brother's, and stay all night, 1 will call for you tomorrow as 1 take an airing.' Harley, who little suspected the scheme that was in agitation, readily embraced this opportunity of visiting her brother. She looked about for Le Brun, to inform him of her intended absence ; but lady Mary had , taken care to send him out of the way. Her ladyship took a very affectionate leave of Rebecca, told her James had re- ceived every necessary order, and again thanked her for the integrity of heart she had so nobly shown in having no conceal- REBECCA. 49 ments from her, and promised her, that her friendship, for herself and family, should be manifested even after her death. She then returned to the drawing-room, and kept sir George engaged in conversation till she im- agined Rebecca was departed. Sir George, though mortified by the re- turn of his letter unopened, yet conceived great hopes from the account Harley gave him of their conversation, and determined to watch carefully for an opportunity to see and personally plead his own cause to his fair enslaver; but he cautiously concealed these thoughts from his mother, whom he was far from imagining was at that very mo- ment counteracting all his schemes. In the mean time Rebecca continued her journey, and by noon, on the second day of her departure, she found herself drawing very near her father's collage. 'Ah!' said she, 'how surprised and de- lighted will the dear old gentleman be to see me arrive so unexpectedly ; nay, I think, even'my mother will rejoice to see me after so long an absence.' Then, in idea, she ran over all she had to relate to them. ' And how my father will applaud my conduct!' said she exultingly. ' Surely there can be no pleasure in this world equal to the applause of a parent whom we love, and whom it has ever been our study to obey.' The chaise drew up to the door. She 5 M) REBECCA. looked towards the parlor window; no one appeared. 'I am afraid they are not at home,' said she; but casting her eyes up to the chamber, she saw the window curtains close drawn. At that instant Ruth, their faithful servant, appeared at the door. 'Oh! dear, Miss,' said Ruth, in a lone of sorrow, ' I did not think you could have come so soon.' ' What is the matter V cried Rebecca, springing from the chaise, and seizing the hand of Ruth in breathless agitation. ' Your poor father!' said the servant. ; Oh, God ! my father is dead !' ' No, my dear Miss, not dead ; but very — very ill.' 'Merciful heaven!' cried Rebecca, sink- ing on her knees, with uplifted hands and streaming eyes, 'restore him to my prayers, or let me not live to know his loss.' The transition was so great from pleasure to extreme sorrow, that she could no longer support it, but fainted in the arms of Ruth. On her recovery she found her mother by her side. She threw her arms round her neck, wept audibly on her bosom, but could not speak. 'Ah! child, you may well cry,' said Mrs Littleton, ' for your father is not expected to live one hour after another.' 'Then lead me to him, dear mother; lead me to hira, that I may receive his blessing, REBECCA. 51 nnd catch his last sigh. Ah! he must not die without a parting embrace to his Re- becca.' Mrs Littleton made no reply, but proceed- ed slowly up the stairs. Rebecca followed, and in a moment found herself by the bed- side of her almost expiring father. He put forth his hand — she pressed it to her lips, and sunk in speechless agony on her knees. ' Do not lament thus, my dear child !' said he faintly: ' heaven's will be done! 1 trust you have found a protector in lady Mary, and shall go satisfied with that comfortable reflection.' 'Protector! indeed,' cried Mrs Littleton, peevishly; 'heavy was the day when she left her home for the protection of strangers ! 1 am sure you have never been well since. This illness is all her fault. You have done nothing but pine and mope about, nnd if any thing happens it will lay at her door; but she was so eager forsooth to go, any where raihcr than home, she was tired of the com- pany of her old father and mother.' 1 bo not, my dear love,' said Mr Littleton, 'do not embitter my last moments by laying on the mind of this poor girl more than she can bear. Behold her anguish, and pity it. Do not attribute my illness to so wrong a cause., My frame has long been decaying: 1 felt it myself, though I forbore to nfflic! 52 REBECCA* jour bosom by mentioning my apprchen* sion.' 'Oh! my father,' cried Rebecca, 'I hope you will recover. I hope — ' 'Do not deceive yourself, my dear; my disorder is a decay of nature, and a slow nervous fever, which the physician informed me yesterday it was impossible to remove. 1 then desired your mother to send for you ; but tell me, my child, how is it possible you could have arrived so soon?' ' Alas !' replied Rebecca, ' 1 did not know you were ill till I arrived at the door. 1 came by my lady's desire to spend a few weeks with you and my mother before she comes into the country.' 'You have not offended her, Rebecca?' said her father. 'No, indeed,' said she exullingly; 'I am higher in her esteem than ever.' ' Ahi so she may tell you,' cried Mrs Lit- tleton ; ' but I will answer for it she was tired of your company, or she would never have sent you away before her; so there is an end of your fine hopes, Miss Becky.' It was with the utmost uneasiness that Re- becca beheld her mother thus prejudiced against her. She endeavored to recollect if any inadvertent expression, in any of her letters, had given her cause of offence; and in hopes to conciliate her good humor, she, in the evening, opened her trunk, and pre- REBECCA. S3 sented her mother with the silk before-men- tioned. She received it sullenly, and laying it down, without scarce deigning to look at it, said, ' This is no time to think of tine clothes, child, though in my heart 1 believe your thoughts never run on any thing else but dress, and fashion, and nonsense.' The truth was, that if Rebecca had a foi- ble, it was a passion for fashionable dress: but this was never carried to an extreme, and, though remarkably attentive to the dec- oration of her person, she was never fine or tawdry. This ill-timed reproach of her mother's filled her eyes with tears, and she retired to bed, but not to rest; her father's illness, and the distance she then was from her benefac- tress, were such painful reflections, that sleep was a stranger to her eyes till the morning began to dawn, when she enjoyed a few hours of composed slumber. Mr Littleton's disorder daily increased. He found his end nearly approaching, and frequently recommended to his daughter to preserve, after his death, the same dutiful respect she had ever manifested. To l\Jrs Littleton he did not fail to recom- mend a tenderness of behavior, that might tend to invite the confidence of Rebecca. — * You are loo harsh with the poor girl.' he 5* 54 REBECCA. would say, ' treat her kindly i I am sure you will find her deserving of it.' ' I know her better than you do,' was the constant reply, 'and I know she is an artful designing girl.' Mr Littleton could not believe any ill of his favorite, and died in her arms on the fifth day after her arrival, blessing her with his last breath. CHAPTER IV. Sir George had not really determined in his own mind whether he would address Re- becca on an honorable score, or merely gain her affections, and then act as he should find, from her manner and disposition, she de- served. That day and the next he waited patient- ly in the hope of seeing her; but on the third, when Hanley returned, (for lady Ma- ry did not bring her home till that time,) how great was his surprise and disappoint- ment to hear that Rebecca had been sent for into the country to a relation who was ill; for Mrs Littleton's letter arriving the day following Rebecca's departure, it served as a sufficient apology for her absence, though indeed lady Mary did not think proper to' enter into any explanations with her woman, BEBECCA. 5b and rather misled her, by mentioning Bris- tol as the place where Rebecca's sick friend resided. Though Sir George had previously in- formed his mother that he proposed accom- panying her into Lincolnshire, he no sooner heard that the object of his pursuit had tak- en. a different route, than he determined to follow her. 4 I have thought better of it,' said he to her ladyship; '1 shall not visit my tenants this year, for 1 have several engagements in town which I cannot well put off; besides, I forgot that I had promised a friend of mine to accompany him to Bath.' ' Ah ! my good George, your journey will be in vain,' thought his mother. In a few days he left Twickenham, and immediately set out with post-horses for Bristol, where both himself and Le Brun were extremely diligent in their inquiries, though the reader may easily imagine to how little effect. However, he still contin- ed, and nourished the hope, that by some chance or other he should discover the res- idence of the fair Rebecca ; for as he could not suppose the situation of her friend very splendid, he thought it needless to inquire for her among people of fashion ; but he de- sired his valet to be very minute in exam- ining every house where they let lodgings. Three weeks had now elapsed since Re- •56 REBECCA. becca's departure, and lady Mary was pre- paring to visit Lincolnshire, when, as she was conversing with her daughter, lady Os- siter, one morning, she was suddenly seized with a fainting fit, which was succeeded by several others, and left her so weak and low, that her physician thought her life in immi- nent danger. Alarmed at this intelligence, she desired Harley to write immediately for Rebecca to return, and, calling for pen and ink, deter- mined no longer to delay making the poor girl independent ; but when she took the pen and attempted to write, her faintness returned, and she was totally unable to ex- ecute her purpose ; but resolved to do some- thing for her, she called lady Ossiter to her. and thus addressed her: 'There is a young woman of the name of Littleton, who has been with me some lime, though now she is in the country. She is of a sweet disposition, and it was my inten- tion to leave her, at my death, a thousand pounds. I request you, my child, to pay her this sum as soon as you conveniently can, after my decease, and also give her my watch, a small picture set with pearls, and this ring, (taking one from her finger.) 1 hope she will arrive time enough to be in- formed from my own mouth of my inten- tions in her favor; but should she not, I REBECCA. 57 trust you will not be neglectful of the desire of a dying mother.' It was with great difficulty and many in- terruptions, that lady Mary made known to her daughter this her request. Lady Os- siler promised obedience — but alas ! she sel- dom remembered her promise, however sa- credly given. It was impossible to give Sir George notice of his mother's danger, for no one knew where he was. Lady Mary continued tolerably composed all that night, but the next day her fits re- turned, and she expired in the evening. When Rebecca received the news of her benefactress' illness, she ran to Audley Park. James was still there. ' Your lady is very ill, James,' said she, ' I must set off immedi- ately for Twickenham.' ' And I will attend you, Miss,' said James, eagerly, 'only say when you will like to go, and I will order the chaise.' ' I will go the moment you can procure one,' said she. ' I thought you would go with me, James, and indeed I should not like to take such a long journey by myself; but do not order a horse, my good James, we shall travel faster if you ride with me in the chaise. I could not bear to have you hurrying after me on horseback.' Jame»s had lived with lady Mary from the day of her marriage. He had served his mistress with the truest fidelity, and tears 58 REBECCA. gushed from his aged eyes when he heard of her danger. When IVlrs Littleton found Rebecca was determined to obey Rarley's summons, she conceived it was a high and unpardonable breach of filial duty, for her to think of leaving a mother in so early a state of wid- owhood. ' Yon give me a great proof of your affec- tion, Miss,' cried she, scornfully, 'to lrave me in so much affliction and C.y post haste after strangers. However, wc shall sec who is most worthy your attention, if my lady gets tired of you.' Though Rebecca was greatly hurt by these unjust reproaches, it did not prevent her intended journey,- for she set off that evening, attended by James; and, indeed, in her own mind, firmly resolved that noth- ing but absolute necessity should oblige her over again to visit Lincolnshire, except with her patroness. It was late in the evening when she arriv- ed at. Twickenham. The sad countenance of the domestic that opened the door, led her presaging heart to fear the worst. Harley met her in the hall, pressed her hand in silence, and proceeded to light her to her usual apartment. Rebecca hardly dared breathe as she as- cended the stairs; on passing the dressins;- room of her friend, she stopped, looked ear- REBECCA. 59 ncsily at her attendant, and laying her hand on her heart, cried : — ' tell me the truth — ' but her respiration became so short she was unable to go on. 'All is over.' 'I feared so,' cried Rebecca; then turn- ing into her own room, she sank on the bed in a state of insensibility, which continued some time. Harley endeavored to restore her, and at length succeeded. Rebecca raising her clasped hands to heaven, exclaimed, ' Thy will be done; 1 and the salutary drops of sorrow gushed in a torrent from her eyes ! Harley was pleased to see them flow, and imagining that to leave her to the free in- dulgence of them would be best, retired to inform lady Ossiter (who had not yet left Twickenham) that our heroine had arrived. ' I will see her in the morning,' said she, carelessly, 'lake her with you to the house- keeper's room.' 4 She is in her own apartment, madam. She never associated with even the upper servants.' ' O ! she is quite the fine lady, I suppose : how could you endure thecreature's pride V 'I never discovered that she had any.' 1 My mother used to say that she was very handsojnic,' said her ladyship, looking in the glass. 'I believe every one thought so who look- 60 REBECCA, ed at her. Sir George was greatly struck with her beauty, though he saw her only once.' 'Well, so much the better; I suppose he will take the trouble of providing for her off my hands; don't you think so?' ; Indeed, madam, 1 have often thought she would one day be his wife.' 'Woman !' said lady Ossiter, turning has- tily round, with a look of the utmost con- tempt, ' how could such an idea enter your mind? His wife, indeed! No, I think George knows belter than that; he may, perhaps, make her his mistress; but go, good woman, go, you have made me quite sick by the hor- rid suggestion.' 'Poor Rebecca,' said Harley, to herself, as she left the imperious lady : ' poor girl, you will see a sad change, 1 fear. You have lost your best friend, and so have we all in- deed ; for though my late dear lady was proud, she never wanted humanity.' When the mind of Rebecca became a lit- tle composed, Harley prevailed on her to take some refreshment. She then inquired in whieh room the remains of her dear ben- efactress lay. ' In her own dressing-room, as yet, but to- morrow she is to be removed.' Rebecca said but little more, and Harley, thinking the fatigue of her journey, and the agitation of her mind combined, might incline REBECCA. 61 her to go early (o rest, removed the supper table and wished her a good night. No sooner was Rebecca alone, than she gave way to a fresh burst of grief; the loss of her father was again renewed, the unkind- ness of her mother now was remembered with double anguish, and her own friendless- situation struck so forcibly on her mind, as to make her sorrow almost insupportable. At length her tears seemed exhausted ; a kind of torpid calm succeeded, and she de- termined to visit the chamber of death. With hasty and unequal step she reached the door of the apartment, opened it, and paused for a moment to summon all her for- titude. The attendants in the adjoining room heard her enter and approached to console her; but she waved her hand in silence for them to retire, and they, respecting her too much to attempt an intrusion on her grief, left her to the free indulgence of it. She placed the light she held on a table, and approaching the coffin, gazed with rev- erential awe on the countenance which had often beamed on her looks of the kindest be- nevolence. 'Dear and only friend,' said she, 'since thou art gone, where is there a heart re- maining that feels one spark of affection for the poor Rebecca ? O, my more than mother, thy adopted child is now bereft of every earthly comfort ! Spirit of purity, look down 62 REBECCA. from the mansions 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 deserve the aiFection with which you honored me ; and it shall still be my study to preserve, to the latest hour of my life, my integrity unshaken : though you can no longer be sensible of my respect and love, sacred shall be your memory to my heart.' Here her feelings overpowered her; her head sunk on her hand — her tears again burst forth — her lips continued to move — tut articulation was denied. At this instant the door opened and sir George entered. He started, involuntarily, on beholding Rebecca. Her pensive atti- tude, her depressed countenance, plainly de- picted the sorrows of her heart; the afflict- ed maid had not heard his approach. He drew near and laid his hand on one of hers. She raised her timid eyes, looked at him mournfully, pointed to the coffin, and cried emphatically — 'She is gone forever!' Sir George really loved and respected his mother; nor had he heard of her illness, when the public prints announced her de- cease. Shocked beyond measure, he took post-horses, and never stopped, even for nec- essary refreshment, till he alighted at his mother's gate, faint and fatigued. He asked if his sister was there, and being informed REBECCA. 63 she was in the drawing-room, he went has- tily up stairs ; but how was he disgusted on entering the room to see the unfeeling daugh- ter of so good a mother receive him without i\uy emotion. She arose, presented her cheek, was glad to see him, slightly mentioned the melan- choly event, and soon after asked him if he intended ordering a mourning coach, or only to put his servants in black? l I think,' con- tinued she, ' the mournings are much short- er than they used to be, and nothing near so deep : for my own part I detest mourn- ing, it makes one look so dismal.' Just then lord Ossiter entered, and pro- posed a game at cards, by way of whiling away the evening. 'Ah! do join us, George,' said his wife, 'I have been moped to death for a week.' ' I am not in a humor for amusement, sis- ter,' said sir George, coldly ; l and since you have no feeling yourself for the irreparable loss we have sustained, I shall not trouble you with mine, but retire where 1 may in- dulge them uninterrupted.' How great must be the contrast I hen be- tween this unfeeling sister, and the affecting sensibility of Rebecca ! lie pressed her pas- sive hand in silence, mingled his tears with hers, and found his heart insensibly relieved. • My'poor mother,' said he, after a pause. 64 REBECCA. of a few moments, 'little did I think when we parted, it was the last time !' 'She is undoubtedly happy,' said Rebec- ca, in some measure forgetting her own sor- row, and wishing to convey consolation into thr bosom of sir George. 'Oh! I know she is,' replied sir George; 'if the practice of every virtue can insure felicity, she is happy beyond what our weak imaginations can paint. 1 Rebecca's tears streamed afresh. 'Ah! my dear mother,' said he, 'your loved re- mains are embalmed by the tears of grate- ful affection, though thy daughter, forgetful of thy worth, can amu^e herself with trifles, and neglects the tribute due to thy memory.' •Ah!' said Rebecca, '1 never can forget her — never wish it; for the remembrance of her virtues will emulate me in the attempt to imitate them.' She pressed her lips to those of her clay cold benefactress, faintly and tremulously pronounced the word ' farewell !' and rushed hastily out of the apartment. The next morning, at twelve o'clock, Har- ley summoned her to attend lady Ossiter. On entering the dressing-room, she found her ladyship deeply engaged with her man* tua-maker, and milliner. She did not even notice the entrance of Rebecca; but thus continued her directions to the former ol her tradeswomen : REBECCA. Go 'Let them be made as elegant and as full as possible ; but at the same time, remember, 1 wish to pay every necessary respect to my poor mother. It was a very sudden thing. Mrs Modely, you cannot think how it shocked me; my nerves will not be set- tled again this fortnight, I dare say; then a thing of this kind forces one to be mewed up, and see no company, so 1 thought 1 might as well stay where I was, as go to town. But, as I was saying, Modely, let my white bombazine be very handsome, and full trimmed with crape: 1 do not mean to keep from visiting above a fortnight, and, I think, in a month or six weeks I may wear white muslin, with black crape ornaments, for undress.' The accommodating mantua-maker con- sented to all the lady said, when, turning round to speak to her milliner, lady Ossiter was struck by the elegant person, and mod- est humble countenance of Rebecca. 4 Oh ! 1 suppose,' said she, carelessly, ' you are the young woman my poor mother men- tioned in her last moments?' Rebecca courtesied assent, but was una- ble to speak. ' Ah ! she was very good to you, I under- stand. Well, don't make yourself uneasy, I will be your friend in future.' She attempted to express her thanks; but 6* 66 REBECCA. her emotions were so violent, she was forced to continue silent. 1 1 dare say, child,' said her ladyship, ; you have some taste in dress; come, give me your opinion about the caps I have or- dered. Here La Blond, show her those caps: well now, what do you think, will these be deep enough? for, though I hate mourning, 1 would not be wanting in re- spect; one's friends are apt enough to say ill-natured things; one can't be too cautious in giving them occasion. Do you think 1 should go without powder? You look mon- strous well without powder; but then you have light hair, and your black dress, tho' so very plain, is becoming. Who are you in mourning for, child ?' Rebecca was struck almost speechless with astonishment. 'Good heavens!' said she, mentally, 'can this be the daughter of lady Worthy?' 'Who are you in mourning for, child?' said lady Ossiter. 'My father, madam/ 'Oh! you have lost your father. Well it can't be helped, old folks must be expected to fall off. You must not be low spirited if you are with me: I hate low spirited peo- ple, though since I lost my poor mother I have been low enough myself; but I endea- vor to shake it off as much as I can; it is of no manner of use to £rrieve : when folks are REBECCA. 67 once dead, we can't recal them, though we fretted ourselves blind.' ' But we cannot always command our feel- ings, madam,' said she. 'No, child, that is true. I am sure I often wish my feelings were not so delicate as they are; it is a great affliction to have too much sensibility. Pray 'what is your name, my dear?' ' Rebecca. 1 'That's a queer old fashion name. I re- member when my mother used to make me read the great family Bible; I remember then reading about Rebecca Somebody; but, Lord! child, 'tis a vast vulgar name; I'd alter it if I were you; one never hears of such a name among people of any refine- ment.' ' I am sorry it does not please your lady- ship,' said she, almost smiling at her absur- dity ; ' but as I was christened by it, 1 must be satisfied with it.' 'WeH, then, Rebecca, but what is your other name?' ' Littleton, madam.' ' Ah, Lord ! they are both three syllables ; that is so tiresome. Well, but, Rebecca, (for I like that name best on account of its oddity) should you have any objection to enter into my service ?' 'Far from it, madam: I shall cheerfully 68 REBECCA, serve any part of the family of my dear de- parted lady.' 'Ah! but I am not quite so sentimental as my mother was: 1 shall not want any per- son to work and read by me. 1 shall want you to be useful : now, for instance, to make up my morning caps, to trim my muslin dres- ses. Can you speak French, child ?' 'Yes, madam, and shall be happy to ren- der myself useful in any thing within the compass of my power. I do not wish to eat the bread of idleness.' She spoke with a degree of spirit that surprised lady Ossiter: however, she una- bashed proceeded : ' I have two little boys and a girl ; I really have not time to attend to them : now I could wish you to hear them read, give them some little knowledge of the French, and take care of Miss Ossiter's clothes. Can you make frocks ?' '1 make no doubt but I can, if I try, and my utmost endeavors shall not be wanting.' 'That is well. I understand my mother did not suffer you eat with the servants, so you shall have your meals in the nursery with the children. I suppose if my woman should happen to be ill, or out of the way, you would have no objection to dress or un- dress me.' 'I am afraid I should be awkward, mad- am; but if you will pardon my want of ex- REBECCA. 69 pciience, you shall always find me ready to obey your commands. 1 'And what wages do you expect?' ' Whatever you please.' 'What did my mother give you?' ' I had no settled salary.' ' Well, but I like to know what I am about. I'll give you sixteen guineas a year.' Rebecca agreed to the terms, and, retir- ing to her apartment, left lady Ossiter to fin- ish her consultation with her milliner and mantua maker, while she took up her pen, and informed her mother that she had en- tered into a new line of life, in which she hoped to be enabled to do her duty, and gain the approbation of her lady. CHAPTER V. During the lime that intervened between the death of lady Mary, and her interment, sir George, though he frequently thought of Rebecca, made no attempt to see her, but satisfied himself with sending every day to inquire after her health. t It is certainly a very improper time,' said he, 'to think of entertaining her on the sub- ject of v love. Her heart is at present over- charged with sorrow ; besides, I should prove myself unworthy of her esteem, could T, at 70 REBECCA. this melancholy period, think seriously on any thing but the mournful cause of our meeting.' The morning after the last solemn ccrc- mony was performed,, sir George, sitting at breakfast wilh his brother and sister, men- tioned that, in respect to his mother's mem- ory, he should remain at Twickenham a cou- ple of months, and see no company but one or two select friends: he then invited lord and lady Ossiter to remain with him during that period, and proposed sending immedi- ately for the children. ' You'll pardon me, brother,' said her lady- ship : ' 1 cannot think of remaining any lon- ger in this melancholy place than till tomor- row, and 1 must say you are much to blame, in resolving to bury yourself from the world : ] am sure it is a step which cannot be expect- ed from so young a man.' 'You are to act as you please, sister, and, I hope you will permit me to do the same.' 'Oh! apropos. you know the young woman, Rebecca — what's her name? I never can re- member it. She that my mother kept with her as a kind of companion.' 'I have seen her,' said sir George, 'and cannot but be surprised my mother made no mention of her in her will; but, I suppose she desired you to make some provision for her.' REBECCA, 71 'Yes, she did mention her to me, and I have taken her into my protection.' 'Here lord Ossiter, who had been care- lessly looking over the newspaper, laid it down. 1 So then. 1 said he, with an air of curios- ity, 'your ladyship has taken her as a com- panion; but, pray, if that is the case, why is she not at the breakfast table, to save you the trouble of making the tea ?' 'Oh! you labor under a vast mistake, my lord; no humble toad-eater will ever make a part of my household, I assure you. I de- test the whole class of them ; they are in general a set of forward, impertinent crea- tures, made up of pride and idleness : I keep nobody about me who cannot render them- selves useful; and 1 know of no use your cringing companions are but to criticise their ladies 1 actions, and contribute to their lords' amusement.' His lordship looked disappointed, and re- sumed the newspaper. Sir George was perfectly astonished at his sister's ill-bied expressions; but willing to know in what manner Rebecca was provided for, simply asked the question. 'Why, I have taken her into the nursery, to teach the children to read.' '1 approve the plan vastly,' said lord Os- siter, again laying down the paper: '1 think the children wanted a governess.' 72 REBECCA. ' Not so fast, my lord ; I hare as great a dislike to governesses as to companions. 1 hate the whole class of your second-hand gentry. Rebecca will hear them read, dress and undress Miss Ossiter, make her frocks, and upon occasion, assist my woman.' Sir George felt his cheeks glow with indig- nation. 'I think, sister,' said he, 'consid- ering the place she held in our mother's es- teem, the situation you mean to give her is not paying that dear woman's memory a proper respect ; besides, 1 do not think it probable, after having been treated as the companion of lady Mary, Miss Littleton will feel herself satisfied with being only the ser- vant of her daughter.' 'Don't make yourself uneasy about that, George; 1 have talked with her, and agreed about terms: however, if you choose to re- tain her here as housekeeper extraordina- ry,' attempting an arch look. fc To cheer the solitary days of mourning," added his lordship. Sir George darted at them both a look of the utmost contempt. ' Your inuendoes,' said he, 'are as cruel as they are ground- less : however, lady Ossiter, you will please to know, that no person that has been hon- ored by the friendship of my mother, shall be treated with disrespect, when_J have the power to prevent it. If Miss LittTeton is not REBECCA. 73 satisfied with her situation, I shall think it my duty to place her above it. 1 'I will send for her, and you may ask her, 1 said her ladyship. 'Aye, that is the best way, 1 said lord Os- siter, ringing the bell ; for from sir George's evident agitation, he imagined there must be something extraordinary about Rebecca, and earnestly wished to see her. 'Tell Rebecca 1 want her, 1 said the lady to the servant that entered the room. 'For heaven's sake, lady Ossitcr,' said siF George, 'do not shock the poor girl's feel- ings, by sending for her here. 1 'Oh, Lord! she must get the better of those feelings you talk about, or she will never be good for much ; besides, it always diverts me to see her blush, and look like a fool.' 1 Rebecca Littleton can never look like a fool, madam,' cried sir George, with vehe- mence, ' and since you persist in sending for her, you will excuse me if J do not stay to see lady Ossiter render herself ridiculous, by insulting a woman every way her supe- rior, but in the paltry distinction of fortune.' He then left the room, shutting the door after him with violence, and in a few mo- ments Rebecca entered. How great was the surprise of lord Ossi- ter when he beheld the strikingly beautiful figure that presented itself to his view ! Mod- 7 74 KEBECCA esty had recalled to her cheeks the rosy hue which grief had chased from them. Her fine eyes were timidly raised from the floor to her lady's face, while, with a gentle in- clination of the body, and a voice of softest harmony, she requested to know her com- mands. 'Nothing particular, child; only I was mentioning to my brother the situation 1 had offered you in my family, and he thinks you are not satisfied with it.' ' Indeed, madam, I am greatly obliged to sir George for his solicitude, but must re- quest your ladyship to inform him that while 1 can be so fortunate as to obtain your ap- probation, 1 shall never be otherwise than happy, and shall deem myself highly hon- ored by your protection as long as your ladyship shall think fit to extend it towards me.' 'Perhaps you would like to tell him so yourself, child ?' ' By no means, madam.' 'But you are quite satisfied, Rebecca?' 'Entirely so, my lady, and that satisfac- tion will ever remain uninterrupted, while 1 am conscious of performing my duty.' ' Well, that's all,' cried her ladyship, in a half peevish accent. Rebecca courtesied, and retired. 1 Well, and what do you think of her, my REBECCA. 75 lord?' cried the lady, turning to her hus- band ; ' why you seem in a maze !' 'I am perfectly so, my dear,' (endeavor- ing to recollect himself;) 'but it is because I can't for my soul conceive what George can see in this girl lo make such a fuss about her.' 'Why, don't you think her handsome?' 'No woman appears so in my eyes when your ladyship is by.' ' Oh ! yoirr vastly civil this morning; but, pray what fault have you to find with her person ?' 'Nay, nothing particular; but I think she is altogether insipid.' 'She is very fair.' i Yes, but I was never struck wilh your fair women; they have not half the expres- sion of your fine brunettes.' Lady Ossiier was a very dark woman, and could not help at that moment going to the glass to adjust her handkerchief. ' She has fine eyes, my lord.' ' Fine eyes, oh ! ridiculous-; you may as well admire the blue glass beads stuck in the head of a wax doll. 1 don't see any thing about her even tolerably pretty but her neck and shoulders; they seem well enough. I 'This horrid mourning makes one look like a fright,' cried (he lady, still looking in the glass. ' and they have made my gown 76 REDECCA. so abominably high, I declare I appear quite round shouldered; it shall positively be al- tered before I wear it agiiin.' 'Not if 1 might advise, my dear; for I de- clare 1 never saw you look better than you do this morning; and, in my opinion, women inclined to em bon point have more dignity in iheir persons than the very slender; for instance, now your Rebecca j she will al- ways remind me of Death and Daphne.' 'Dear, my lord, when have I seen you in so agreeable a humor? 1 declare you arc quite wittj'.' 'How can I be otherwise, my lady, when T have so good a subject for ridicule?' Her ladyship did not take the keenness of the sarcasm, and retired, to give some orders to her woman, perfectly satisfied that Rebec- ca was infinitely inferior to herself in per- sonal attractions ; while her artful husband applauded himself for the part he had acted, which he naturally imagined would secure, within the reach of his power, a woman, whose charms had made such an impression on his mind, that he was resolved if possi- ble, to sacrifice her a victim to seduction. When sir George left the parlor, he re- tired to his own apartment, and calling for pen and ink, addressed the following letter to Kebecca : 'With a heart fully sensible of the merit REBECCA. 7 7 of the object I presume to address, how is it possible but 1 must also be sensible of the fear of offending her? Pardon me, dear young lady, if almost unacquainted with the thousand little delicacies expected by your sex from those of ours, who venture to offer their friendship and assistance to innocence and beauty; pardon me, I say, if my expres- sions are not sufficiently denotive of my re- spect and esteem, while I venture to ask if the situation my sister oilers you is perfectly consonant with your expectations and wish- es; yet 1 ought to know the modesty, the humility of your mind, will lead you to tell me it is. 1 But, alas! 1 too well know the disposi- tion of lady Ossiter to imagine a heart like yours, replete with sensibility, can enjoy any tolerable degree of tranquillity, when subject to hercaprice and ill-humor: I must therefore entreat my lovely friend to accept, not from me, but as a legacy from my mo- ther (for I am [sure she designed it, though the sudden stroke that deprived us of her prevented her putting her designs in execu- tion) the enclosed two thousand pounds, which will, at least, place you above de- pendance on the weak and unworthy. ' Permit me also to assure you, dear, ami- able Miss Littleton, that, in every future pe- riod of my life, 1 shall be happy to convince you how much I am interested iri your wel- 78 REBECCA. fare, and that nothing would give me more sincere pleasure, than being allowed to de- vote my life and fortune to the promotion of your felicity. ' I am, with every token of esteem and re- spect, your friend, GEORGE WORTHY.' Rebecca could not read this letter without emotion; yet did she not hesitate what an- swer to return ; the letter itself she careful- ly locked up in her cabinet, but the bank bills she sealed up in the following note: ' Rebecca Littleton returns her most grate- ful acknowledgments to sir George Worthy for the kind solicitude he evinces for her happiness. She begs leave to return his noble present, which she cannot think of ac- cepting, as it would lay her under an obli- gation too oppressive to a spirit which sir George is mistaken in thinking humble. Re- becca feels herself highly satisfied in the protection of lady Ossiter, and. though she feels grateful for the offered friendship of the son of her ever lamented benefactress, she must beg leave to decline it, as the vast distance fortune has placed between them renders it impossible to cultivate true friend- ship, which can only subsist between per- sons on an equality with each other. Re- becca wishes to be retained in the memorv REBECCA. 79 of sir George only as the servant of his sis- ter, and, at the same time assures him, the son of lady Mary Worthy will ever be re- tained in her mind with fervent wishes for his happiness.' When she had sent away this note, she again read over sir George's letter; a tear almost unknown to herself, fell on it as she perused with attention his offers of friend- ship: but she soon recollected herself, has- tily brushed away the token of her weak- ness, and, returning the letter to her cabi- net, began to prepare for her removal to town whither lady Ossiter intended return- ing the next day. 'What a noble mind is here displayed!" said sir George, as he read Rebecca's note. ' How much does this woman's sentiments clevaLe her above the station in which Prov- idence has placed her! I fear my letter was not dictated with sufficient delicacy; her pride has taken the alarm, that laudable pride that is a woman's best safeguard: but no matter, 1 will not write again, but wait till I can discover in what manner my sister behaves to her. When she has tried her new situation, she may not find it so easy as her little knowledge of the world at present leads her to imagine. When she finds her- self uncomfortable, then, perhaps, the offer of friendship from me will be more accept- able.' 80 REBECCA. In the evening sir George having no in- clination to join the insipid chat of lord and lady Ossiter, pleaded letters to write, and went into the library to look for a book that would afford him an hour's rational amuse- ment. As he entered the room, he saw Re- becca busily employed in retouching a small drawing that lay before her, and he ob- served that she frequently looked at a por- trait of his mother that hung over the chim- ney. ' I disturb you, I fear, Miss Littleton.' 'By no means, sir,' said she, rising visi- bly embarrassed ; ' I was just going. Indeed, my being here is an intrusion, 1 must entreat you to pardon.' ' 1 shall be extremely sorry if Miss Little- ton should consider herself an intruder in any apartment in this house. You were drawing, will you permit me to see your performance?' 'You will smile at my presumption, sir; but I have been endeavoring to catch some faint resemblance of my regretted lady, that should any thing separate me from her daughter's service, 1 might have it in my power sometimes to gaze on her beloved features and weep.' 'You have been happy in preserving the likeness : but, I think, I have a miniature of my mother, the most striking thing of the kind I ever saw.* REBECCA. 81 He then drew from his pocket a small case, which contained lady Mary's picture, elegantly set with brilliants, intermixed with pearls. It had been set as a present for la- dy Osaiter; but as the lady knew not of her brother's design, he thought he might now dispose of it more to his own satisfaction. 1 Will Miss Littleton honor me so far,' said he, taking it from the case, 'as to wear this picture for the sake of her whose resem- blance it bears?' 'The picture of itself, sir George, would be to me an invaluable treasure ; but its or- naments are so superb and costly, you will pardon me if I decline the acceptance of it.' 'Why will you mortify me by this refus- al? You treat me very unkindly, Miss Lit- tleton, since even my mother's picture is not acceptable from my hands!' * Indeed, sir, you are mistaken, and, to convince you I am not ungrateful, was that picture divested of its rich ornaments, I would accept it cheerfully, and wear it, not only for her sake, but for your own.' 'Charming, engaging woman !' exclaimed he, catching her hand, 'why are you thus irresistibly lovely, and yet refuse me the satisfaction of placing you above the malice of fortune ?' She blushed carnation deep, as she at- tempted to withdraw her hand; but a smile 32 REBECCA. dimpled on her cheek, and her heart peep- ed forth from her tell-tale eyes. 'You make me smile,' said she, 'to hear you talk of the malice of fortune. We, who arc born in an humble station, cannot feel the want of luxuries which we never enjoy- ed. Happiness is not always annexed to wealth, or misery to poverty. We arc all poor or rich by comparison, and my situa- tion, vvhich is to you an object of compas- sion, would be to thousands the summit of felicity; but your condescension makes me forget myself: 1 wish you a good night.' 'Stay one momeni, adorable Rebecca!' cried sir George, stopping her as she was about to leave the room. 'Hear me, 1 en- treat you, with attention; by heavens, you shall not go into the service of lady Ossiter, nor into any service. I am }'Our slave ; my life, my fortune, all are yours. 1 love you more than existence itself. 1 mean not to offend your delicacy. My designs arc of the most honorable nature. Name your own time, 1 will wait with patience. Only suffer me to tell my sister, that the woman whom 1 aspire to the honor of making my wife, must henceforth be treated with that respect her worth and virtue demands.' ' Hold, hold, dear sir George,' cried she. pale and trembling. ' I must hear no more. You honor me, highly honor me by these professions of regard : but you talk of im- REBECCA. 83 possibilities. The humble Rebecca Little- ton, however sensible of your merits, can never be your wife; insurmountable obsta- cles are placed between us.' ' If your bosom, lovely Rebecca, glows with sensibility, every obstacle is easily re- moved.' ' Do not interrupt me,' said she. The ob- stacles I speak of can never be removed ; my vows are already pledged ; they are re- gistered in heaven; 'tis sacrilege to listen to your declaration.' Sir George dropped her hand, and, with a look of mingled horror and surprise, cried, 'Are you already married ?' 'No,' replied she faintly, ' not married.' 'Then you sport with my misery, cruel, cruel girl !' 'Alas!' said she, with a look of tender- ness, 'heaven knows I do not. 1 would give worlds, did 1 possess them, to save you from one hour's anguish ; but, ah ! sir George, mine is a wayward fate: my bosom is hea- vy laden with sorrow. Ah! do not increase that sorrow by letting me see you partake^it.' 'Then,' cried he, starting from his seat, 4 then you do not hate me?' ' Hate you, oh ! no, that were impossible."' 'Then we may yet be happy,' said he, catching her in his arms. Rebecca's heart had almost betrayed her; but she was sensible this must be the mo- 34 REBECCA, ment of victory. She pushed him from her, and assuming an air of reserve, ' Sir George,' said she, 'if you wish my happiness there is but one way by which you can promote it, that is, by never more speaking to me on this subject; my fate is irrevocably fixed; cease then to disturb my felicity by endeav- oring to awaken my sensibility. You, sir George, are designed by heaven to move in an exalted station. You have many duties to fulfil, which it will be almost criminal to neglect. For me, unknowing and unknown by the world, if I can but pass through life blameless, my utmost wish is gratified.' 'Will you then leave me,' said he, 'and leave me devoid of hope ?' ' No, sir, 1 will endeavor to cheer your bosom with the same hope that animates mine. I hope, sincerely, you will soon 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 most sacred ties, enjoy in her socie- ty every blessing that heaven can bestow, or you desire.' 'No, Rebecca, no; do not indulge so vain an idea, for while you live, and remain un- married, never shall the hymeneal torch be lighted by me.' ' Ah !' cried she, forcing a smile, 'you talk wildly; we shall hear you tell a diftererff tale shortly.' REBECCA 85 'But will you not accept the picture as a token of my esteem ?' He held it towards her. She put his hand back, and said, in a tone of displeasure, 'I can accept no diamonds, sir George, and, for heaven's sak.e, detain me no longer here. 1 have acted very improperly in talking with you so long; but 1 will take care this shall be our last interview.' 1 She then courtesied slightly, and retired to her apartment, where conscious rectitude alone alleviated the pangs of disappointed love. ' Yes,' said she, ' I have done right ; an un- ion with sir George would by no means in- sure me permanent felicity; he is young, volatile, and possessed of violent passions. Alas! when the novelty of my person was worn off, I might cease to charm, and how could I endure his neglect? Besides, how ill could my heart bear that he should be sul> ject to the sneers of his acquaintance on my account. Oh! my dear lady Mary, you knew what was best for nie, and never will I forget your injunctions.' 86 REBECCA. CHAPTER VI. 1 And pray what do you think of my la- dy V said Mrs Lappet to Rebecca, the eve- ning of her arrival in Bedford-Square. Lappet was an experienced abigail. She had lived with lady Ossitcr from the time of her marriage, and could not, without envy, behold Rebecca introduced into the family, as she feared she might have a gown or two less in the year, or, perhaps, Rebecca might supplant her entirely. This jealousy made her resolve to cultivate an intimacy with the unsuspecting girl, and be the most forward in showing her civilities, that she might win her confidence, and obtain her real opinion concerning her lady, and then betray her. Lappet, when she had any favorite point to gain, could assume a most insinuating man- ner. The words that fell from her tongue were smooth and pleasant as the river's sur- face unruffled by a breeze: but like that, when the whirlwind of passion arose, dis- played the most frightful contrast. 'And what do you think of my lady?" said she, as she was taking her tea in Re- becca's apartment. ' 1 hardly know what to think yet,' replied Rebecca. ' I never judge very hastily. She appears extremely good natured.' * Ah! my dear, you will know her better REBECCA. 87 by and by; there is a deal of difference be- tween old servants and new ones.' ' 1 should be much obliged to you, Mrs Lappet, to give me some little idea of the best method to obtain her approbation/ ' Indeed, that is more than is in my power, child, for what pleases today may displease tomorrow: 1 never give myself much trou- ble about it. How do you like the children V 'They are very fine boys; but I am most pleased with Miss Ossiter; she seems ex- tremely mild and engaging.' 'Well, you are the first person I ever heard say they liked her best. My lady can't bear her; she says she is so stupid — ' '1 think it is very wrong,' said Rebecca, in the simplicity of her heart, 'for mothers to make any distinction in their regard for their children ; and I shall consider myself doubly obliged to be kind and affectionate to Miss, if her mamma is unkind to her.' ' It shows the goodness of your heart, my dear ma'am,' said Lappet, beginning to see a little into the disposition of our heroine. 'But, pray, have you seen my lord yet?' -'Yes, once at Twickenham.' 'Well, don't you think him a vast hand- some man?' ' He is well enough,' said she, carelessly ; 4 but sir George Worthy is, in my opinion, a great deal handsomer.' ' Lord Ossiter is a man of gallantry, tho\ 88 REBECCA. I assure you, ] must tell you, but it is be- tween ourselves, he once made proposals to me.' 'Indeed! Well, 1 think you were right to refuse him; disproportionate marriages are seldom happy.' 4 Oh ! Lord, ray dear, it was not for mar- riage, I assure you; it was since I lived with my lady.' 'Good heaven !' cried Rebecca, with a look of surprise,' what since 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 fam- ily after such an affront, Mrs Lappet?' 'Why, I thought it was a pity to lose my place, so I kept my gentleman at a proper distance, and he dropped the pursuit: but come, ma'am, let us hurry the nursery maid to put Miss and the young gentlemen to bed, and then we will go down and take a game at cards in the housekeeper's room.' ' You will excuse me, Mrs Lappet: I nev- er played a game at cards in my life; be- sides, my lady has given me some muslin to spot, and I must set about it.' 'Lord ! child, you'll have enough to do if you humor her by working of an evening.' ' It is my duty to do all that is in my pow- er, and 1 had rather work than sit still.' ' Well, then, bring down your work, you REBECCA. 89 will be moped to death sitting here by your- self.' 'Oh! dear, no, I shall not: I am never lonely. 1 work very fast, and when I have clone a good bit 1 can take up a book and readk 1 had rather not go down if you will excuse me.' 'Just as you please, ma'am,' said Lappet. *We shall be glad of your company, but if you prefer being alone — ' She courtesied ironically, tossed her head, and left Rebecca to the enjoyment of her own reflections, while she entertained her fellow-servants with the pride, conceit, and ignorance of the new-comer. ' I tried to get her down amongst us that we might have a little fun with her,' said she, 'for you would laugh to hear how foolishly she talks. She will not stay here long, take my word for it.' At least, Mrs Lappet had resolved in her own mind, to use every exertion to displace her from a family where, she was fearful, her beauty, innocence and worth, would at- tract the notice of one, whose devoirs she considered as entirely due to herself. For, to own the truth, Mrs Lappet had not been quite so deaf to the proposals of her lord, as she had represented to Rebecca, though she had rather made a mistake in saying his lordship offered a settlement, that being a measure earnestly desired by her- self, but which she could find no means to 90 REBECCA. bring lord Ossiter into; indeed he had found her too easy a conquest to indulge a thought of putting himself to much expense or trou-* ble on her account. The next morning when lady Ossiter had breakfasted, she went immediately to the nursery, a thing she had not been know to do for many months before; but Rebecca was a novelty, and therefore demanded from her lady some little attention: as Rebecca had been told that her lady seldom, if ever, came into the children's apartment, the visit was entirely unexpected, and lady Ossiter found her busily employed in arranging some pencils and crayons in a small, but el- egant, drawing-box, which had been given her by her late benefactress. She arose, and apologized for the confu- sion her drawings, &c. which had fallen on the floor, had made in the apartment; 'Had I been aware your ladyship intended this honor — ,' 'Oh! never mind, child,' cried the lady, with a look of infinite good humor, which no woman knew better how to assume than la- dy Ossiter; ' 1 did not come to disturb you, but 1 thought 1 should like you to hear the children read.' ' Have they ever been taught their letters, madam ?' 'Why, upon my word, 1 cannot tell; I be- lieve Charles can tell them when he sees REBECCA. 9 1 them : I have tried him sometimes by tak- ing up the newspaper when he was in the room; but do not believe Lucy or James know any thing about it; but call them in, and let us see what they can do.' Rebecca, who had about two hours before seen them all neatly dressed, and given them their breakfast, opened the adjoining room to call them, when how great was her sur- prise when she saw the eldest boy, who was eight years old, with two or three color shells before him, several brushes and a ba- son of water, with which he had not been satisfied to daub several sheets of paper, and his own clothes, but also his brother and sister's hands, faces and frocks ! Infinite- ly chagrined that they should be seen by their mother in such a condition, she turned mildly towards the nursery-maid, and ask- ed ' how she could be so neglectful as not to mind what the children were doing?' 'Mind them yourself, ma'am,' was the an- swer: ' 1 thought you came to help me, not to command me. 1 'I shall for the future mind them,' said she, attempting to take the brushes from Master Ossiter. 1 You shall not have them,' screamed he: 'I will paint when 1 please; mamma says I shall.' v Rebecca persisted in removing from his reach the shells and water, when setting up 92 REBECCA. a scream like a Bedlamite, he threw one, which he had retained in his hand, full in her face. 'What is the matter?' cried lady Ossiter, 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 she shall let you do as you please,' said the mother, kissing him, ' so do not cry.' At that moment another scream, from the inner apartment, vibrated into her ladyship's ears, and Master James, and Miss Ossiter came bellowing into the room, ' that the new maid would wash their faces. 1 'Heaven save me,' said the lady, 'from often visiting the nursery! You are enough to drive one mad. 1 had hoped, indeed, that you, Rebecca, would have managed them better than to have had all this uproar ; but I see servants are all alike; they have no more notion about the management of children than natural fools: why, 1 will an- swer for it, if 1 had time, 1 could make these children do just as I please, without any of this roaring. Do you not think, Charles, you would always mind me?' 'Oh! yes, mamma; you never contradict me, but give me every thing 1 want.' ' Well, go, my dear, go to Rebecca and have your face washed, and you shall go out REBECCA 93 in the coach, and buy some more paints. — Do, child, put James and Miss Ossiter on clean frocks, and get yourself ready to go out with them. I will hear them read an- other time ; poor dears, they have been vex- ed enough this morning:' then taking her favorite's hand, to lead him out of the room, she stooped, and picked up two or three of Rebecca's drawings. ' Here, my love,' said she i ask your maid to give you these pretty pictures.' Rebecca was too meek to contradict, and he marched off with her two best perform- ances in his hand. In about ten minutes a footman tapped at the door, to inform her that the chariot wait- ed, and that she must go to her lady's dres- sing-room for Master Ossiter. Rebecca, who had been accustomed to peace and regularity, was distracted by the :hurry and confusion she had been thrown into; but flattering herself it would be bet- ter next day, she made all the Inste she could, and repaired to the dressing-room, where, on a sofa, beside his mamma, sat Master Ossiter, with a pair of gold bowed scissars, cutting the houses, trees, and fig- ures from her drawings, which her ladyship was amusing herself by placing in a kind of fantastic medley on the table before her. 4 See, Rebecca,' cried she, 'we have dis- 94 REBECCA. patched those pretty pictures, I dare say, a deal quicker than you made them.' Rebecca smiled faintly; but she felt a cold chill strike to her heart. 'Alas! lady Mary would not have done so, 1 sighed she, softly, as she followed the children down stairs, and a tear started in her eye, which she was unable to suppress. 'Drive to the toy-shop,' said Master Os- siter, as the man shut the chariot-door, ' and see what mamma has given me,' continued he, pulling half a guinea from his pocket, and showing it to his brother and sister; 'and 1 am to lay it out just as I please.' As the chariot stopped at the shop door, a poor man, pale, and emaciated, with but one leg, took off' his hat, bowed, but did not speak. 'Look at that poor man, my dear,' said Rebecca ; ' he would be thankful for a small part of your money ; suppose you were to give him a shilling. 1 'What should 1 give him a shilling for? 1 said the child. 'Because he is in great distress; see how pale he looks, and what a thin ragged coat he has on this cold day V 'Well, what is that to me? 1 ' Suppose, Master Ossiter, you were cold and hungry ?' 'That you know is impossible,' ' Impossible! sir. 1 REBECCA. 95 ' Yes, to be sure ; a'nt I a lord's son, and shall not 1 be a lord myself, if I live long enough? and you know lords are never poor. 1 'Then it is more their duty to relieve those that are.' 1 Duty !' said he, staring in her face ; ' mam- ma never gives any thing to poor folks; she says they should be all sent to prison, and made to work.' This dialogue had passed in the shop, and the miserable object of it was still at the door. Miss Ossiter put her little hand in- stinctively into her pocket. 4 If I had any money! but mamma don't very often give me any.' Then approach- ing Rebecca, in a kind of half whisper, 'if you, ma'am, will give the poor man half a crown, I will ask my uncle for one to pay you with the first time I see him.' Rebecca gazed on the child as she was speaking, and she fancied she beheld her grandmother's benevolence play about her infant countenance. She caught her in her arms, gave her the desired half crown, and joy for a moment animated her bosom, when she beheld both the beggar and his little benefactress look equally happy. A few days afker this, lady Ossiter sent for Rebecca in haste, to her dressing-room. 'You seem to have some taste for drawing, child,' said she, ' pray can you paint flowers V 96 REBECCA. ' A little, madam. 1 'Well, now I want you to do something for me; I last night saw the most beautiful painted trimming, and I'll take you to a shop this morning where you shall see some iikc it ; if you think you can do it 1 shall be vast- ly pleased, for there is a ball next week. T 'But your ladyship is in mourning,' said she, blushing for her lady's foil}'. 'Oh, la! well, 1 protest 1 forgot that, but now, 1 dare say you could fancy me some- thing pretty in black and white; do try, child: I shall change my mourning in about a month, and I think you can do it in that time.' ' If I knew what would please your lady- ship.' 'Do it according to your own taste and I am sure it will be pretty.' The good nalured Rebecca was willing to please to the utmost of her power, but, alas ! that power was far from adequate to the many tasks imposed upon her. Mrs Lap- pet was a great favorite, therefore often ask- ed leave to go out, and then Rebecca was summoned to attend the toilette of her la- dy, and indeed her taste and judgment in the arrangement of female ornaments was so el- egant, that lady Ossiter never appeared to greater advantage than when dressed by her hands. Then was a morning cap to be made, or REBECCA. 97 a dress fresh trimmed, they were all brought to Rebecca; and did her ladyship ever ask for any thing that was not ready, the answer was, indeed, my lady, 1 gave it to Rebecca, two or three days ago, but she is such a fine lady, and spends so much time at her book and her music. In the mean time our fair heroine was sa- crificing her health to the vain hope of ob- taining the approbation of her lady, she had not a moment for the most trifling relaxa- tion ; but obliged to rise early on account of the children, for the nursery-maid impos- ed upon her good nature, and left her en- tirely to dress and undress them. Mrs Lap- pet would, if in the least indisposed, retire to rest, and leave Rebecca to sit up for her lady, who, addicted to the fashionable vice of gaming, was often from home till four, five, nay, sometimes six o'clock in the morn- ing; and when she had ill luck, would re- turn in the most diabolical humor, and vent that spleen which politeness obliged her to conceal in company, on her meek unoffend- ing attendant; indeed to such a height did she suffer her passion to rise, that Rebecca, on hearing the knocker announce her arriv- al, would fall into such a fit of trembling, that she was scarcely able to stand while she undressed her. But the reader must not suppose that, du- ring this period, either sir George or lord 9 98 REBECCA. Ossiter had forgotten her; the former had written her several letters, which she re- turned unopened ; for, said she, conscious as I am of my own weakness, why should I wilfully expose it to trials it may not be able to withstand. At length, wearied out with her inflexible resolution, he determined to take a trip to the continent, and endeavor to banish her from his thoughts ; but before he went he determined to put it in her power • to leave his sister whenever her situation became painful, without being obliged to have recourse to servitude again. And Mrs Harley was the person he determined to employ on this occasion. Lord Ossiter had made frequent attempts to see and converse with Rebecca, but she was so much in the apartment with the chil- dren, or in her lady's dressing-room, with Lappet, that he found it more difficult than he at first imagined, and he was too cautious in his affairs of gallantly to use pen and paper. One morning, as she was intently engaged in completing the trimming we have men- tioned, Mrs Harley unexpectedly entered the room. A faint gleam of pleasure animated the countenance, and beamed from the eyes of Rebecca, as she arose to receive this faith- ful servant of lady Mary. ' Mrs Harley,' said she, taking her cordi*- KEBECCA. 9& ally by the hand, 'to what am I to attribute this unexpected pleasure?' Struck with her pallid cheeks and alter- ed air, Harley first brushed oft' a starting tear, and then disclosed her errand. ' I come, my dear Miss, from my good young master — ' 'If to bring me a letter,' said she, inter- rupting her, ' 1 must beg you to excuse me — ' 'My dear child,' said Harley, 'don't fly out in this manner, but listen to me atten- tively ; 1 have children of my own, Miss Littleton, and heaven forbid 1 should ever advise a young creature to a wrong step! Trust me, I am actuated only by friendship when 1 entreat you to inform me what mo- tives you have for thus obstinately refusing the offers of a man of rank and fortune, who loves you honorably and sincerely ?' 'Do not ask me, my dear Harley; do not let us talk on this subject.' ' We will talk on no other then, for sure I am there must be some powerful reason for 3'our conduct. Is your heart otherwise en- gaged ? Does want of fortune prevent your happiness ?' ' Ah, no ! no! my friend,' cried she, her head falling on Harley's shoulder, and her x eyes filling with tears ; ' I am unhappy be- cause I am not insensible.' 'You talk in riddles, my dear; if you arc not insensible ' 100 REBECCA. 'Oh, stop! stop! you must say no more, unless you mean to break my heart; for, alas! Harley, the last time 1 saw my dear departed lady Mary, I promised her, sol- emnly promised her, by every hope of fe- licity, never to listen to any overture of love from sir George; and never, no never while 1 retain the least remembrance of what is past, will I break a vow so solemnly given.' 'This family pride,' said Harley, 'was the only foible my lady had. 1 ' She had no foible,' said Rebecca, ' it was a wish to insure my felicity alone, prompted the request.' ' Whatever was her motive, my dear Miss, promises when once made should be invio- lably observed ; I will, therefore, say no more to you on the subject: sir George, since satisfied you will not accept his offers, is resolved next Monday to leave England.' Rebecca turned pale and Harley con- tinued. ' He means to spend the winter on the continent, but has desired you will accept his mother's picture, which he has had fresh set for you, and this trifle,' laying a bank note for five hundred pounds on the table. 'Now I will have no qualms and squeamish nonsense. Miss Littleton; I am certain my lady meant to provide for you — more shame for some folks that they forgot her last com- mands; but we cannot always make people REBECCA. 101 do as they ought. Now, you must take this money, and consider it as her bequest. I am sure you will find it necessary very soon to quit this family ; your dear pale cheeks and heavy eyes tell me you should at this moment be in your bed, rather than at work.' She then drew out the picture, which was only set in plain gold. Rebecca took it, pressed it to her lips, and tying the riband that was fixed to it round her neck, placed it as a sacred deposit in her bosom. She also took the bank note and put it in her pocket-book, but secretly resolved that nothing but the severest neces- sity should tempt her to break into it. When Monday arrived, Rebecca could not avoid approaching the window at the sound of every carriage that drew up to the door. 'He will not surely leave England, 1 said she, 'without taking leave of his sister.' About two o'clock she saw his chariot draw up to the door, and half concealing herself behind the window shutter, gazed on him, and breathed a prayer for his felicity, as she saw him alight. In about half an hour she was desired to bring Master James and Miss Ossiter into the drawing-room. She took them to the door, opened it and put them in, but her feelings were too powerful (o permit her to enter. 'Ah! uncle,' said Miss Ossiter, 'I am glad 9* 1 02 REBECCA- you are come, I have been waiting for you this long, long lime.' ' Well, my dear Lucy,' said he, fondly taking her on his knee, 'and what might make you wish to see me so much?' ■• Because I love you dearly,' said she throwing her little arms round his neck, 'but that an't all. 1 ' No ! what else was it then ?' She lowered her voice, and, clapping her mouth close to his ear, said, ' I owe my maid half a crown, and I told her you would pay her.' Sir George was surprised. 'And pray how does that happen?' said he. 'Rebecca lent it me,' said she, still lower- ing her voice, ' to give to a poor man.' 'What Rebecca?' said sir George, aston- ished.' 'Why, Rebecca,' replied the child; 'my own maid, that teaches me to read, and say my prayers, and tells me if I am good I shall go to heaven.' 'What stuff is the child talking?' said la- dy Ossiter, catching the last word. Sir George was loo strongly affected to speak ; he put a couple of guineas into Lu- cy's hand, and hastily kissing them all, hur- ried out of the house ; as he seated himself in the chaise, he cast his eyes towards the upper windows. Rebecca caught the glance ; REBECCA. 103 the impulse was irresistible; she threw up the sash. Sir George kissed his hand, while his countenance betrayed the feelings of his soul. Rebecca laid hers on her heart, then lift- ed them towards heaven, as if she would have said, 'God bless you! 1 'Drive on,' said sir George, and again bowing his head to hide his emotions from the servants, a moment conveyed him from her sight. CHAPTER VII. '1 do not think, my dear,' said lord Ossi- ter, as he was taking his chocolate in his la- dy's dressing-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 parly at lady Ricket's tonight.' 'Some new engagement, my lord,' said her ladyship, smiling affectedly. 'Not a very agreeable one,' he replied. — 'I am obliged to go into the city, on some infernal business with my banker: these monied men are the most tiresome animals in the dreation. He says 1 have over-drawn him, and desires I will come and examine my accounts ; it is a cursed stupid affair, and 104 REBECCA. I don't often concern myself about suci'i things, but the fellow is so pressing.' ' But perhaps you can get away in time to dress and join us, my lord, before supper/ '1 will if possible, but I dare say the wretch will make me as stupid as himself before I have done with his discounts and interests, so I shall be horrid bad company ; therefore it is most likely 1 shall come home and go to bed.' 'To bed! my lord,' cried her ladyship, laughing; 'why sure you are going to take pattern by the sober cit.' Though lady Ossiter pretended to desire her lord's company, it was, in fact, the fur- thest thing from her wishes. She had for some time past been admired and followed by the duke of a conquest so brilliant and unexpected, was the highest gratification of this vain woman, and she heard with plea- sure her husband's intended appointment in the city, as she was resolved lo see his grace for half an hour at home, previous to their meeting at lady Ricket\s ball, where she was engaged to dance with him. But lord Ossiter had frequently given her a few pretty plain hints in regard to her con- duct with her noble admirer, and therefore, though she had resolved to see him, she thought it would be best to do it privately, and Lappet being unfortunately gone to vis- it a sick brother in the country, she was REBECCA. 105 obliged to make Rebecca her confidant on this occasion, and immediately on retiring from breakfast, she summoned her to her dressing-room. 4 Rebecca, child, 1 said she, as she entered, ; I think I have not given you any thing since you have been with me, and you have dune more than half of Lappet's business for her; there is that blue satin gown and coat, you may lake them, and as they are rather soil- ed, here is something to pay for dying and making up :' presenting her with a couple of guineas. ' Do you know, child,' continued she, ' I have taken the strangest whim into my head, and you must lend me your assist- ance — I think that trimming you made me extremely pretty, I dare say it will be great- ly admired. 1 ' 1 am happy it pleases you, madam, 1 said she; 'but I thought you were saying you would have it altered.' l Oh, no, I was not speaking of my dress then, I think nothing can be more elegant or better fancied, but you have a charming taste, that is certain. No, I was going to tell you of a strange whim I had taken to play a trick with the old duke of——; for, do you know, the man makes downright love to me whenever he meets me, and the other da}% when he was here, he left behind him these superb bracelets. Now, I have a mind to mortify him. and as my lord is going into 10b REBECCA- the city, I will send for the duke to come here that I may have an opportunity of re- turning his present, and laugh at him.' ' Would it not be better to return them to him,' said she, 'without seeing him?' • Oh, no, that will not do half so well, for I shall have the satisfaction of seeing his chagrin; so Rebecca, you shall take a note, which 1 will write, and send it, unknown to the other servants, and when his grace comes he shall come disguised, and pass for your brother, and you can bring him to my dres- sing-room.' 'Your ladyship will pardon me,' said she, laying the two guineas on the table, '1 am not fit to engage in such a service; 1 would much rather decline it.' 'Decline it!' said her ladyship, redden- ing; ' pray are you not my servant?' ' Undoubtedly, madam.' 'And is it not your duty to obey my or- ders?' 'When they are proper.' ' And pray are you to be judge of what is proper or improper in my actions?' ' By no means; but your ladyship will al- low me to judge of my own.' 'Oh, certainly, madam, if you are too squeamish to enter into so innocent a plan.' ' I make no doubt but your designs, mad- am, are perfectly innocent, but where there REBECCA. 107 is mystery there is always room for suspi- cion, and should my lord discover it — ' 'But how can he, child, if you are dis- creet ?' ' I am determined to be so, madam, and hope you will pardon my temerity, if I hum- bly entreat you to drop this design.' 'Prithee, good madam pert,' said her la- dyship, scornfully, ' do not pretend to more delicac}' and virtue than your betters. I have as high a regard for my honor as any woman can have, but I may indulge myself, 1 hope, in a little innocent gallantry for all that. Go; I shall not want you till I dress.' She retired, and for this once the pain her lady's anger gave her was more than coun- terbalanced by the reflection that she had acted right in rejecting the infamous service she would have employed her in. Contrary to her lady's expectation, Re- becca had scarcely entered her own apart- ment, when Lappet returned, and entered the dressing-room, to receive lady Ossiters commands. ' Well, Lappet,' said she, 'you have re- turned in very good time, for 1 have been so grossly affronted by that little prude, Re- becca, that 1 can hardly retain my anger; do }'ou know the impertinent creature had the audacity to refuse having a note convey- ed from me to the duke of . though I had condescended to inform her (hat mv h> 108 REBECCA, tentions were only to laugh at him. You know, Lappet, there is not a woman breath- ing would be more cautious tban myself in doing any thing improper.' 'Dear, my lady, I am sure of that; nor is your ladyship, by any means, obliged to enter into explanations with your servants ; to speak your commands, is sufficient to have them instantly obeyed.' The obsequious abigail took the note, con- veyed it herself, and at eight o'clock in the evening his grace was admitted to her lady's dressing-room. Lady Ossiter meant nothing less than to overstep the boundaries of discretion in this tete-a-tete. The duke was to her an object of disgust, but flattery was delightful to her ears, and pearls and diamonds were pretty ornaments in her opinion, easily purchased by a little condescension; and she flattered herself that while she remained virtuous in one great point, she might indulge herself in every other imprudence, and defy the cen- sures of the world. But it was the opinion of Rebecca, that every truly virtuous woman should careful- ly avoid even the appearance of indiscre- tion, especially those whose elevated sta- tions might render their examples infinitely pernicious to their inferiors: she therefore felt herself greatly hurt by lady Ossiter's want of prudence, and flattered herself the REBECCA. 109 repulse she had met from her would pre- vent her making her designs known to any other servant, and she readily imagined Mrs Lappet would be as unwilling as herself to engage in the business; so when informed she had returned, Rebecca found herself somewhat relieved, as she knew she should avoid the painful task of dressing a woman whom she feared would be predetermined not to be pleased with her utmost exertion. While the duke and her ladyship were together, the artful Lappet thought she would just step in and hear what Rebecca had to say on the subject, for, by her specious ap- pearance of friendship, she had so won on the unsuspicious heart of our heroine, that she never scrupled to communicate to her every thought as it arose, except those that concerned sir George, and those she endeav- ored to conceal, if possible, even from her- self. 1 So,' cried Lappet, sitting down, ' my la- dy and you had a tiff today, 1 find.' 'We did not quite agree,' said Rebecca, slightly, ' but I dare say she has forgotten it by this time ; I am sure I do not wish to re- member it.' 4 1 suppose she wanted to get a letter con- veyed to the duke." 'What then she has told you herself has she?' 1 Oh, yes, the moment I came in. 1 declare 10 110 REBECCA. it is a pity my lord is not acquainted with her conduct.' ' It wuuld be a cruel thing, Mrs Lappet, lo plant dissension between man and wife; be- sides, 1 dare say my lady, though impru- dent is not criminal.' 4 To be sure my lady has some excuse ; 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 ladyship was more atten- tive to increase his domestic comforts, he would necessarily grow more attached to home, but while she is so extravagantly fond of dissipation, and while the four honors have the power to keep her from home, night after night, can we be surprised if her husband seeks abroad for that felicity he is sure of not meeting in his own house ?' ' Why, to say truth, my lady is a sad rake.' 'And her children, Mrs Lappet, she pays but little attention to them, nor will she suf- fer any other person to do it. Can there be a more lovely or engaging child than Miss Ossiter. 1 am sure the little time 1 have to instruct her is amply repaid by her docility and attention; as to Master Ossiter and his brother James, they are so humored, espe- cially the former, that it requires greater powers than I am possessed of to make them attend to any thing.' 'Pie is very passionate,' said Lappet. REBECCA. 1 1 1 * Extremely so,' replied the artless Rebec- ca; 'besides which he is cruel, mischievous, and a great liar, and these things should be corrected in time, or he will be as dpspica- ble when a man, as he is now disagreeable as a child.' 'His temper is very much like his mo- ther's.' ' 1 think there is some similitude between them, for indeed Mrs Lappet, I do not know how you acquire fortitude to support it, but my lady is sometimes so passionate and ca- pricious 1 am ready to die with vexation, and, though my heart be ready to burst, in her presence 1 dare not shed a tear, for if sometimes, when 1 can no longer suppress them, they will burst foil h, she reproaches me with childishness, passion, and folly. Folly it is, 1 will own, to let the behavior of so unfeeling a woman wound my sensi- bility; but yet when I know that 1 do my duty to the utmost of my power, it is very hard to meet nothing in return but taunts and unkindness.' ' So it is indeed, my dear, but you must keep up your spirits.' '1 do, Airs Lappet, as well as I can, but my lady sometimes asks me what I am fit for, and if she had not taken me who would. That my lord often tells her he wonders, she will keep so awkward a creature about her. 1 am sensible 1 have many obligations 1 1 2 REBECCA. to her ladyship's family, but can I help my inexperience, unacquainted as 1 am w Ufa ser- vitude?' 'No, to be sure you cannot; but my lady will want me, and 1 shall come in lor my sh; t re, for 1 do assure you, child, we get it all round in turn; bat you will know how to bear these things better in time.' ' Lappet returned to her lady, and not only repeated but exaggerated every thing which Rebecca, in the simplicity of her heart, had uttered. 'Ungrateful creature!' said the lady, 'af- ter what I have done for her.' 'Ungrateful indeed, madam, I really won- der your ladyship will. keep her.' 'I shall not keep her long, Lappet; I as- sure you 1 am quite sick of her airs and im- pertinence.' The clock had struck ten, the children were in bed, and lady Ossiter just stepped into her chariot and drove towards Caven- dish-Square, the servants retired to the lower apartments, and silence seemed to reign in the house. Rebecca wearied with the fa- tigue and vexation of the day, thought she might, this evening, safely indulge in a re- laxation which she had not enjoyed since her residence in lady Oss'iter's family, which was to practise a few hours on the harpsi- chord. She took her music books and can- dle, and went to a small parlor in a retired REBECCA. 113 part of the house, where stood a fine toned instrument, and where she sat down and amused herself, unthinking how time passed, and entirely inattentive to the footsteps that passed and repassed the door of the apart- ment. The music soothed and composed the perturbation of her spirits. She played several little plaintive airs, and accompa- nied them with her voice; and among the rest, the song she was singing when sir George first saw her. When she had got nearly through it, the remembrance of that scene — the striking contrast of her situation then and now, struck so forcibly on her im- agination that she was unable to proceed. She paused, and tears involuntarily stole down her cheeks; her amusement was end- ed; she rose from her seat, and was shut- ting the book, when somebody clasped her rudely in his arms and snatched a kiss. Rebecca, too much terrified to scream, could only endeavor to disengage herself, and turning round beheld lord Ossiter. ' If I have alarmed you, my dear crea- ture, I humbly entreat your pardon. But do not let me interrupt your amusement ; come, sit down again, and let me hear that charming song you were singing when 1 en- tered the room.' 'Your lordship will pardon me, 1 had no intention of being heard by any one; — 1 hive some orders to execute for my lady." 10* 1 1 4 REBECCA. 'Nay, nay you do not gel oft" so easily. Do you know my lovely girl, I have been absolutely expiring from the first moment I beheld you, for an opportunity to tell you how much I admire and adore you?' ' Surely your lordship cannot seriously mean to insult me.' 'Insult you, my angel! no, by heavens ] would sacrifice the wretch who shoulc| dare offend you. No, my dear girl, I mean to offer you love and affluence in the room of dependance and poverty. I will place you in your proper sphere; such beauty and elegance were not formed for servitude. — Come, listen to rru, I will furnish you a house, keep you a chariot, and settle five hundred a year.' 'Gracious heaven!' cried Rebecca, burst- ing into tears, ' to what am I exposed.' 'Pshaw, pshaw, this is all prudery and nonsense; come, dry your tears and Ictus go to my jeweller's, and you shall take j r our choice of whatever trinkets his shop affords, I will not limit you as to the sum.' Lord Ossiter had but an indifferent opin- ion of female delicacy; bethought the word virtue very pretty in the mouth of a pretty woman, but as to the reality existing in the heart, he thought no woman possessed so large a share, but that money, jewels, and flattery could lull it to sleep : how aston- ished was he then to find, upon taking a few REBECCA. 1 1 5 liberties with Rebecca, that she shrunk in- stinctively from him, shrieked faintly, and staggering a few paces towards the door, fell lifeless on 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,' said he, 'for heaven's sake revive.' — Then placing her on a sofa, he seated him- self beside her, and rested her head on his shoulder. At that moment who should appear at the door but Mrs Lappet, all the fury of a jeal- ous enraged woman flashing from her eyes. 'My dear Lappet,' said his lordship, 'I happened to come unexpectedly into the room where this poor girl was amusing her- self, and see how it has affrighted her; do get a little water.' But Lappet was not to be deceived ; she had heard him utter words of tenderness, and was sufficiently convinced Rebecca was her rival. 'The creature is so affected,' said she, ' 1 declare there is no bearing her, but I assure your lordship I have something else to do than to wait on the dear lovely g/V/.' Rebecca was now recovering, and raising her head, she caught hold of Lappet's gown, as she turned to leave the room, and ex- 116 REBECCA. claimed, 'do not leave me; stay, save me; take me from this place.' 'Indeed, ma'am, 1 am in a hurry,' cried Lappet, twitching her gown from the feeble grasp of Rebecca, and flung out of the room, audibly saying, ' her lady should be inform- ed what sort of a person she had in her family.' Rebecca arose, disengaged herself from his lordship's arms, who no longer attempt- ed to detain her, and with trembling steps returned to her apartment. 'So, ma'am,' cried Lappet, as she was as- sisting her lady to rise next morning, 'so, ma'am, though Miss Rebecca was so deli- cate as to refuse conveying a letter to his grace, she has no objection to private inter- views with my lord. Oh. I could have torn the creature's eyes out, an impertinent minx.' 'What arc you talking of, Lappet?' said her ladyship, with the greatest composure, ' I protest you seem out of your senses.' ' I am, my lady, almost; for when I reflect on so kind, so good a lady as yourself being treated in such a barbarous manner: why, ma'am, after you were gone out last night, I went up to see if Rebecca was doing the dress your ladyship said you would wear on Thursday, and 1 could not find her; how- ever, 3S I knew she - sometimes went to the library when you were not at home, and staid and read for two or three hours, I sat REBECCA. 1 1 7 down and began a little of it myself, but, af- ter working till past twelve o'clock, I thought it was very odd where she could be, so 1 went down the back stairs, thinking perhaps 1 should find her in the housekeeper's room, but as I passed the little music parlor, 1 heard (he sound of voices, and opening the door, what does your ladyship think 1 discovered 1 I thought I should have swooned away, for there sat Rebecca, fast locked in my lord's arms, and her head leaning on his shoulder.' 4 Very well,' cried lady Ossiter, peevish- ly, the crimson of resentment rushing over her face and neck, 'why am 1 plagued with this long story ; one would think you were jealous of the creature, by the passion you are in.' ' I jealous, my lady, does your ladyship think—' 'Oh, no ! I don't think about it ; 1 suppose my lord is not worse than other men of his rank ; and while he is not wanting in respect 4o me., 1 shall not trouble myself about his amusements ; to be sure, it is rather morti- fying to have a little insignificant hussy pre- ferred in one's own house.' 'That is what I say, ma'am. 1 ' You have no right to say or think aboirt it; if I dm satisfied with my lord's conduct, I desire I may hear none of your flippant impertinence upon a subject that don't con- cern you.' U3 REBECCA. 'I have done, ma'am, but I hope you will discharge — ? ' I certainly shall discharge every servant of mine, whose conduct displeases me; there- fore, Lappet, read that impudent scrawl, and then let me know what wages are due to you.' 'Lnppet took the letter, and trembled as she took it, for she knew it to be one which she had written to her sister, and having in- trusted it to the house-maid to put in the post, the girl's curiosity led her to open if, but, being surprised by the entrance of her lady whilst in the act of reading it, she had, in her hurry to put it in her pocket, dropped it, and while the officious Lappet was con- triving to introduce the duke uvperceived to her lady, this unfortunate letter discovered her criminal intercourse wilh her lord. But though lady Ossiler had thus bridled her passion while talking to her infamous confi- dant, she no sooner saw the innocent Rebec- ca, than she vented on her that torrent of abuse fear had prevented her pouring on the other. Artful infamous creature, were her ele- gant expressions, to pretend to such refine- ment of sentiment, and yet be guilty of such s;larin2: faults. In vain Rebecca wept, and called on hea- ven to witness her innocence; even when kneeling, she requested not to be bereaved REBECCA. 119 of her only refuge an unblemished character. The haughty lady Ossiter spurned her from her, and bid her instantly leave her house, and get her bread without, for she was well convinced she did not deserve one. Lord Ossiter, prepared as he was to meet the anger of his lady was unable to bear the illiberal abuse which she heaped on him; he therefore satisfied himself with telling her, when she practised the duties of a wife, he would begin to study those of a hus- band ; till then she had no right to complain, and left her to compose her spirits as she could, while he inquired of his valet what he knew concerning Rebecca. He soon learnt, by inquiries being made among the servants, that Rebecca was dis- missed, and that she had taken a place in the Lincolnshire stage, in order to return to her mother. This was sufficient intelligence for his lordship, and he began at once to plan schemes forgetting her into his power. When Rebecca came to take leave of the children, her feelings were beyond descrip- tion. Miss Ossiter hung about her neck; even Charles and James begged her not to go, and they would be good boys and never vex her by behaving ill again. She em- braced t'hem all tenderly, and with a heart almost broken, got into a hackney'-coach which took her to the inn whence the stage was to set out. She asked to be shown to 1 20 REBECCA. an apartment, and ordered some trifle for supper, then sitting down by a little solitary fire, began to reflect on her vexations, nor did she consider it as the least, that she was obliged to return to her mother, who had written to her but twice during her residence in London, and even those letters were short and cold. The five hundred pounds Mrs Harley had given her, she did not consider as her own property, and besides that, she was posses- sed of but ten guineas in the world ; to be sure she had a few valuable trinkets,, pres- ents from lady Mary, and a good stock of clothes; but what was that? when she want- ed support it would soon be gone. In the midst of these painful reflections she drew the picture of her benefactress from her bo- som, and contemplated it as her chief, her almost only comfort. But, examining it more minutely than she had ever before done, she thought she discovered something like a spring on the edge of the setting, and pressing her finger on it, the back flew off and discovered to her the portrait of sir George fixed behind that of his mother. Spite of herself she could not help gazing on it with pleasure, and when she consider- ed the delicacy with which he had managed to present it to her, he rose higher than ev- er in her esteem. 'Ah,' said she, 'he certainly loves me ? REBECCA. 121 and is worthy my esteem. Why are we not born for each other? for sure I am 1 could be content with sir George, though in a humble station : more — far more happy than in an elevated sphere; for in the hum- bler walks of life the felicity we experience must proceed from a mutual desire to please ; but in an exalted station we live not for our- selves but others, at least if we have not fortitude to scorn the sneers of the fashiona- ble world.' Rebecca could not help considering the possession of this portrait, at this period, as an invaluable treasure, and in her own breast vowed not to part from it. She in- dulged herself with gazing at it while she sat up, and when she retired to bed, laid it on her pillow, and fell into a composed slum- ber, which lasted till called at four o'clock to join the passengers in the coach. Re- freshed and comforted by the rest she had taken, she arose with alacrity to pursue her journey, and nothing material occurred till they had proceeded upwards of fifty miles from town, when the coach w^s overtaken by a post chaise and four, in which was a man, who stopped the coachman and asked if there was not a young person within of the name of Littleton. ' Yes,' cried Rebec- ca, innocently looking out of the window, 'my name is Littleton.' 'Ah, ma'am,' cried the man, 'I am com- 11 }22 REBECCA mantled to entreat you to return. Miss Os- siter was last night taken extremely ill, and continually cries for you ; my lady therefore begs you will forget what is past, and come and take your usual station in the family. — She is convinced of your innocence, but if disagreeable to yourself, she will only de- sire you to remain till Miss Ossiter is better.' Rebecca's heart, formed for the warmest affection, beat high when she heard of her little favorite's illness. The ill treatment she had experienced from lady Ossiter was instantly forgotten, and she thought only of returning as quick as possible to attend the dear little girl. She sprang hastily from the coach, and only taking with her a small portmanteau containing a necessary change of linen, got into the chaise, and though drawn as fast as four horses could carry her, she thought every moment an hour, so anxious was she to arrive in Bedford- Square. It was very late when Rebecca entered London, and she was not enough acquaint- ed with the streets to know whether she was going right or wrong ; therefore, when the chaise stopped in a large square, she jumped eagerly out and ran into the house, with- out once considering whether she knew the place; but when she had got into the hall and the door was shut, just as she was go- ing to run up stairs, the staircase, which was REBECCA. 123 different from the one she had been used to, struck her, and turning hastily round to de- mand why she was brought to a strange place, she saw the parlor door open, and in an instant lord Ossiter was at her feet. 'Good heaven!' said she, 'where am I? why am 1 thus betrayed?' ' You are not betrayed my adorable Miss Littleton,' said he; 'let me entreat you to be calm. Grieved to the soul that lady Os- siter should have treated you so unworthily, 1 made use of an innocent stratagem to bring you back, that I might obtain your pardon, and convince you (hat I am ready to expi- ate with my life, the offence she has commit- ted against you.' 'If that is all,' cried Rebecca, scarcely able to respire, through terror. ' assure your- self I have forgiven you, my lord, and will pardon the deceit you have been guilty of, if you will suffer me to quit this house, where every moment 1 remain, fills me with an- guish and terror.' 'Why do you wish to quit this house, my dear angel?' said he, forcibly leading her into the parlor; 'it is yours, every thing in it is yours, all the servants arc ready to obey your commands.' Then ringing the bell, hjj ordered all the servants to appear, and bid them consider Rebecca as their mis- tress, and obey her as they valued his fu- ture favor. 124 REBECCA. 'Ah, my friends,' said Rebecca, 'do not attend to what he says; I have no right to command you, I am only a servant, like yourselves, and such 1 wish to remain; only continue to me just heaven !' cried she, fer- vently raising her eyes and hands, 'my in- nocence unsullied, and my integrity of mind unshaken.' ' Be composed, my dearest love,' said his hardship, dismissing the servants, 'no harm shall happen to you while under my pro- tection.' 'Oh!' cried she, in an agony, 'I see, un- less some protecting angel hovers over me, I am threatened with the worst of dangers. Let me go, sir! By what authority do you detain me here?' 'Whither would you go, my dear crea- ture, at this late hour? if you quit this house- no reputable door will open to receive you, and 1 am sure my sweet Rebecca would not enter a house of infamy.' ' Alas, alas! my lord, I fear I have done that already, though heaven knows how in- nocently.' ' My lovely girl, do but compose your agi- tated spirits, and every thing will appear to you in a different light; let me send your own woman to you, she shall wait on you to your apartment, where I beg you will take some refreshment, and endeavor to repose yourself; I swear to you, Rebecca, I will not REBECCA. 125 enter your chamber till you give me leave.' 'Merciful heaven !' cried she, ' what will become of me?' Lord Ossiter retired, and an elderly wo- man made her appearance with candles. Rebecca for a few moments stood irreso- lute ; at length she determined to go up stairs with the woman, and by a pretended calm- ness, endeavor to sound her principles, and whether she was entirely devoted to the in- terest of her lord. When she was in the apartment which the woman called her own, she sat down on a sofa, and calmly inquired who slept in the adjoining apartment. ' I do, madam,' was the answer. 'Have you been long in this house?' ' I was only hired yesterday, madam: — and my lord's gentleman informed me the house was taken for a young lady, a relation of his master who was expected from the countrj r .' 'And when do you expect she will ar- rive?' said Rebecca, with assumed indiffer- ence. 'Madam,' cried the woman, staring, 'arc you not the lady ?' 'No, indeed, I am no relation of his lord- ship; I lived in his family as a servant to dress, * undress, and teach Miss Ossiter to read.' 'But you are just from the country now, madam.' U* 1 26 REBECCA. ' I was on my journey into the country, when I was fetched back again; I under- stood Miss Ossiter was ill.' ' My lord undoubtedly has a great regard for you, and means to give you in this house a brilliant establishment. You can certain- ly have no objection to exchange servitude for affluence. 1 'It is a desirable change, certainly, if made on honorable terms.' 'Liberality, my dear madam, is some- times an equivalent for honor.' 'Are these your real sentiments ?' cried Rebecca, with a scrutinizing look. 'They are the sentiments of one half of the world — ' ' But had you a child, would you talk to her in this strain ; would you wish her to bar- ter all she ought to hold dear in life, for the paltry consideration of splendor?' She looked, as she spoke, earnestly in the woman's face: it was an entreating, suppli- cating look, and the tears gushed from her eyes. 'I had a daughter once,' replied the at- tendant (whom we shall distinguish by the name of Harris:) 'she was lovely as you are — she was once as innocent ; bnt inno- cence could not shield her from the calum- ny of the world, and ill treatment depraved a heart formed for the love and practice of virtue.' She paused, her eyes filled, and REBECCA. 1 2.7 Rebecca began to hope she should find a friend lhat would assist her in escaping the artful snare spread by lord Ossiter, to entrap her innocence. * And can you, my dear madam,' said she, in a most persuasive tone of voice, ' can you who have felt so much for a child, behold a poor forlorn creature, who, unless you help her, must be inevitably lost; plunged into that abyss of guilt and misery, which must sink her beneath the regard of every virtu- ous person- Oh ! rather stretch forth your hand and save her. 1 am innocent now, be thou my guardian angel, and deliver rac from this dreadful place. 1 can work, and I am not ashamed to work, even in the mean- est capacity; I will be ashamed of nothing but dishonor.' Mrs Harris raised her, and spoke to her words of comfort. They sat together till the clock struck four, and then taking off their shoes, and putting out the light, they stole softly down stairs and out at the street door. Mrs Harris knew where she should find a stand of night coaches, and proceed- ing there without molestation, they got into one, and drove to a decent looking house in the borough, the mistress of which readily admitted them, and Rebecca having offered up her thanksgiving to the protector of in- nocence, retired to a homely but clean bed. 123 REBECCA. and enjoyed several hours of uninterrupted repose. CHAPTER VIII. When Rebecca awoke she found herself greatly refreshed, and arose with a heart deeply impressed with gratitude to Mrs Harris, who had thus unexpectedly deliv- ered her from the worst of all evils. She went down stairs, and as she was taking her breakfast began to talk of what she must do in future. ' I had some intentions of returning to my mother, 1 said she, ; but 1 think now I had rather endeavor to get a place. I have but a trifle in my purse, but by writing to Lincolnshire I can have my trunks returned, and 1 have some money in them, and I will beg your acceptance of part of it for the em- inent service you have rendered me; in the mean time 1 shall be much obliged to you if you could recommend me to a place, if you heard of any thing which you thought would suit me.' Mrs Harris and her friend gave our hero- ine a cordial invitation to remain with them till she could hear from her mother, and promised to inquire for a place which might suit her abilities, as she seemed to wish to wait on a very young lady, or be compan- REBECCA. 1 29 ion to an elderly one, as she was certain her constitution would not suffer her to engage with a woman of fashion, who kept a great deal of company and late hours, of which she had experienced a sufficient specimen in lady Ossiter. Rebecca addressed a letter to her mother, briefly informing her she had left her lady and was in quest of another place. That she had, at first, intended to return home, and to that pnd had forwarded her trunk, which she requested might be sent to town again by the first conveyance. In about four day* she received the following answer : ' DEAR CHILD, ' 1 am sorry to find you have left lady Os- siter, as I imagine you must have grossly of- fended her ladyship before she could have parted with you, as you was such a favorite with her mother; however, Rebecca, you chose to leave your father's house and to conduct yourself by the advice of strangers, you therefore know best, child, what you arc about; I shall not take upon me to ad- vise where I know my advice will be disre- garded. As to coming into the country, 1 think it would be putting yourself to a need- less expense, as I know you would never be happy to stay here; and sensible as I was of that, you cannot wonder I have chosen a companion and protector for mj r self, and by 130 REBECCA. uniting with the worthy Mr Serle have, upon his daughter and family, a claim to those tendernesses and attentions I in vain expect- ed from my own child. Mr Serle went to the inn and inquired for your trunk, but we can hear nothing of it; you must, therefore, inquire for it at the inn whence the coach eets out in London. ' As you always were, or pretended to he a little philosopher, 1 have no doubt but you will get very well through the world; and you have youth and a good constitution on your side. 1 shall always be glad to hear of your welfare; above all things, Rebecca, be modest and virtuous ; and mind vour re- ligious duties, as your poor father and 1 al- ways taught you, and never forget that you have a mother who loves you, and to whom all your duty and respect is due. Mr Serle and Miss Peggy desire me to give their best wishes to you, though they have no acquaint- ance with you. 1 am, dear child, Your affectionate mother, R. SERLE.' Rebecca's sensations on the receipt of this letter, are belter imagined than described. Scarcely six months had elapsed since the death of her father, and her mother was married again, that mother who, but a short time since had declared, that to be suspect* REBECCA-. 1 3 1 ed capable of admitting a second partner, was an insult that hurt her feelings exces- sively. Rebecca now felt that she was in reality a poor solitary being, without a home, and almost without a friend ; to be sure Mrs Har- ris had been very kind to her, but could she expect that kindness to last when she had lost the power of making any recompense, flow- ever, she determined to make some inquiry concerning her trunk, and to that end re- quested Mrs Harris to accompany her; but all the tidings she could learn were, that the coachman had left it in the country, and that he had since heard it had been taken away by a person who said he came from Miss Littleton herself, with orders to pay all ne- cessary expenses. 'Was there any thing of much value in the trunk?' said Mrs Harris. 'Alas!' cried Rebecca, 'there was the greatest part of my clothes, and a five hun- dred pound bank note, which 1 had to keep for a person who is gone abroad.' 'Pray, child, what kind of a man is this father-in-law of yours?' ' Indeed I can hardly tell you ; he never visited my father during his life, nor did I ever see him above twice, except at church ; he has been a widower some years, and has one daughter; he is an attorney by profes- 132 REBECCA. sion, but I believe he Dever had much prac- tice.' ' Perhaps your mother's annuity was the object that invited this marriage.' \ h may be so, but I can hardly think it, for at the utmost it is not more than forty pounds a year. My mother has an agreea- ble person, and lively manner; 1 do not think it improbable but he may have mar- ried her for love.' ' 1 do not think it unlikely but he has got your trunk.' 'Dear, Mrs Harris, how can you suggest such a thing? you quite shock me.' 'Shock you or not, I think that is really the case, and I would advise you to pursue legal methods to discover it.' 'No,' cried Rebecca, resolutely, 'never; I cannot bring myself to suspect that my mother would unite herself to a man capable of such an action; and if that were really the case, I hope 1 have too high a sense of filial respect to attempt exposing her to the malicious censures of a world, who would not fail to involve her, however innocent, in her husband's guilt. My own interest shall ever give way to her peace of mind, for she was the chosen companion, the bosom friend of the btstof fathers, and though she seems to have forgotten that I am her child, I can never forget that she is my mother.' 'All this may be very clever, for what I REBECCA 133 know,' Said Mrs Harris, 'but I am sure in my opinion, it is very ridiculous. You will find, my poor simple child, your six guineas will go but a very little way towards buying you clothes for a decent place; however, we must 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 1 have an acquaintance who lives in this street, and who, perhaps, may have it in her power to help you to something.' They called on the person mentioned, who was a lady's woman, in an opulent mer- chant's family. Mrs Harris mentioned Re- becca's intentions, and learnt that there was a country lady, then on a visit to this fami- ly, who had parted with her maid, and was in want of one to supply her place. Rebec- ca thought she could venture to take such a situation in a regular quiet family. She was introduced to the lady, who, struck with her lo*vely person and modest demeanor, con- ceived an instantaneous prepossession in her favor, and engaged her upon liberal terms, to enter her service on that day week. Rebecca felt extremely happy that she should no longer be a burden upon the kind Mrs Harris, and eagerly set about prepar- ing, as well as the narrow state of her finan- ces would allow, to take possession of her new place. Mrs Barton (the name of Rebecca's new 12 134 REBECCA. mistress) was a pleasant lively brunette, about twenty years old. She had married, when very young, contrary to the advice of her friends, a young man of some fortune and rather flighty character, but she had twenty thousand pounds at her own dispos- al, and her motto was, ' All for love.' Barton was really attached to her in the first years of their marriage, but his temper was too versatile to be long constant to any thing; he in time grew cool, and often play- ed her false, but she was of such an even, cheerful, unsuspecting temper, so unaffect- edly tender, so attentive to his interest, and studious of his peace, that he found it impos- sible to treat her with unkindness, so that there was always an appearance of much cordiality between them, for though she could not shut her eyes and ears upon his infidelities, she wisely concluded it was pru- dent sometimes to be wilfully deaf and blind, and that if good humor would not reclaim him, ill humor would certainly make him worse. With this couple Rebecca went into Shropshire, a few weeks after she entered Mrs Barton's service. Their house was a venerable gothic building, situated in the midst of a beautiful park, and had fallen to Mrs Barton on the death of her godfather, from whom also she inherited her independ- ent fortune. Rebecca found herself much REBECCA. 135 at her case, Mrs Barton was very kind to her, and finding she possessed an intelli- gent mind, often made her the companion of her rambles about the grounds and adja- cent country. Mr Barton troubled his lady but little with his company, except at meals, and sometimes not then; nay, he even went so far as to sleep from home several nights in the week; and this being a liberty he had never before taken, without his wife being informed of the cause, she felt herself really uneasy, and though when he was present she assumed her usual cheerfulness, it was im- possible to conquer her feelings, so as not to let her chagrin and mortification appear to Rebecca, who sincerely pitied, and by ew ery assiduity in her power, endeavored to amuse and entertain her. Mrs Barton kept but little company; she was fond of reading, drawing, music and fancy works; in these she discovered Rebecca's taste and knowl- edge, and many a heavy hour she beguiled in joining the labors of her lady, improving her judgment, and with the sweetest diffi- dence and humility correcting her errors. In the mean time lord Ossiter provoked beyond measure, that a scheme he had im- agined infallible, should have proved totally abortive, despatched his faithful valet oft* to Lincolnshire, in hopes to find the fair fugi- tive there, and get her once more into his power; but here he was again foiled; for 136 REBECCA. though Rebecca had written to her mother, that she had engaged with a Mrs Barton, yet she had not mentioned in what part of the country the family usually resided, so that the faithful ambassador returned to his disappointed lord without the least consola- tory intelligence. CHAPTER IX. The visits of Barton from home became now too long and too frequently repeated not to give his wife serious cause for uneasi- ness; she secretly resolved to discover, if possible, to whom he devoted so large a por- tion of his time. Now it so happened, that about seven miles from Belle Park, on the side of a crag- gy hill, watered by an impetuous stream, that rushed from the upper part of the de- clivity, stood an old mill, and by the side of the mill stood an old thatched cottage, within which lived an old couple, who had a very young and very lovely grand-daughter. Now though this old man was the owner of the mill and the cottage, and ground manj r a bushel of corn for his poor neighbors, of which he never failed to take his regular toll, yet it so happened that he was but poor himself. The cottage, we have said, was REBECCA. 137 old, so that the chilling blasts of winter, and the scorching heats of summer found easy entrance through its shattered frame; but Dolly, the blooming Dolly, was the pride of their hearts, and often, as they sat smoking their evening's pipe, they would gaze on her sparkling black eyes, ruddy complexion, and delicate shape, and cry, ' Ah, surely that girl is born to be the comfort of our old age ; she is so handsome, there is no doubt but she will get some squire for a husband, or, may- hap, the lord of the manor. Ah bless the dear face of it, I shall live to see her a great lady I warrant, and then it will send people to mend old grandad's cottage, and repair the crazy old mill.' These were the wak- ing dreams of doating age, for, alas, Dolly had reached her seventeenth year and no squire had yet made his appearance, to ve- rify her grandmother's prophecy. Howev- er, about this time one of Mr Barton's foot- men, a smart lad, about nineteen years old. saw this paragon of rustic beauty at a neigh- boring fair, and, unfortunately for his mas- ter's horses from that day, whenever he was despatched to the neighboring town or vil- lages on messages, errands, or what not, he always found the old miller's cottage lay di- rectly in the way between Belle Park and the place to which he was despatched. One evening Mr Barton having mounted his horse and called Thomas to attend him 12* 138 REBECCA. in his intended excursion, being undeter- mined which way to go, asked the lad if he had discovered lately any new ride; for, said he 1 have gone the old track so often 1 am weary of it. Thomas, full of the charms of Dolly, and eager to embrace the smallest opportunity of beholding them, or at least the cottage that contained them, asked his master if he had ever rode by Gaffer Job- son^ mill. "Tis not above seven miles off", your hon- or, and is the sweetest romantickest kind of a place, with trees and rocks and a river: then the mill is so old, your honor, that it looks, for all the world, like the places we read about in story books.' Barton smiled, and being directed by Thomas as to the road he was to take, can- tered off, followed by the happy lover, ex- ulting in the thought of seeing his mistress, though it were but for a moment. But, per- haps, thought he, master may stop to look at the place, and then I can slip in for a minute, and just speak to Dolly. Alas, poor Thomas, thou art as blind as many other wise politicians, or thou wouldst never have taken thy master to see the cot- tage and the mill. The sun was beginning to withdraw itself behind the hill tops, when gaffer having lighted his pipe and gammar put by her wheel, had seated themselves on the steps REBECCA. 1 39 of their cottage, to talk over. old times, and dream, as usual, of Dolly's good fortune — Dolly had just tied on a clean colored apron, smoothed back her luxuriant chestnut hair, and seated beneath a tree not far distant from the door, was earnestly contriving to dispose to the. best advantage three yards of cherry colored riband, which Thomas had given her, round a chip-hat, in which she thought to outshine all her companions the next Sunday at church, Lifting her eyes from this very interesting employment, who should she see but the identical J\Jr Thomas and a fine young gentleman riding towards the mill. Up she bounced. 'See, see, grandad,' said she, eagerly, 'see yon fine gentleman and Mr Thomas.' She spake loud, the evening was serene; her voice vibrated on the ear of Barton; he turned his head, the old mill, the trees, and rocks were no longer interesting objects. — 'I will have a little chat with the old man,' said he, guiding his horse that way, but his eyes were fixed on the lovely form of Dollj'. He chatted with the old couple till nearly dark, and as he rode homeward could think only on the charms of their grand-daughter. The next evening fie rode that way again, unattended, talked something about repair- ing the mill, and kissed Dolly at parting. Another and asother interview succeeded. 140 REBECCA. Thomas was constantly kept employed at home, and a few guineas, a new gown, and two or three glittering gewgaws had the power to banish him as entirely from Dol- ly's memory, as though he had never held a place there. The squire as she called him, occupied all her thought, and awell a day for poor human nature, the squire tri- umphed over all the virtue Dolly ever pos- sessed. The old folks too, wilfully shut their eyes, and in listening to projected repairs, and thinking of future prosperity, forgot it was to be purchased by the infamy of their grand-daughter. But Barton was by no means a liberal lover ; he talked much, but performed little 5 and though he slept several nights in a week at gaffer Jobson's, he was content to sleep on their homely mattress, nor once thought of providing another. Poor Thomas, mortified to the soul, could not conceal his vexation, nor did he make a secret of the canse among his fellow-ser- vants. It was whispered from one to anoth- er, till at length it reached Mrs Barton; not from Rebecca, for she would not have told such a tale to a distressed wife to obtain the highest consideration ; she would have fear- ed the effect it would Have on her feelings, and agonized with the poor sufferer in idea a thousand times. But Mrs Barton was a woman of spirit; she felt her husband's neg- REBECCA. 141 lect severely, but she would more severely have felt the pity of her servants; she took care, therefore, not to appear to need it. 'Do you know, child, 1 said she to Rebec- ca one day as she was assisting her to dress, 'do you know, child, that this truant hus- band of mine is fallen in love with some chubby faced little chit in the neighborhood, and prefers the company of her and her ig- norant relations to my elegant society, and their hard bed and coarse sheets to his own made of down and covered with the finest holland; do you not think the man is turned fool ?' She said this with such a smile of good humor, that Rebecca looked at her with amazement, and hesitatingly replied, 'He is certainly blind to his own comfort and fe- licity, madam.' ' Oh, no, I dare say the indulgence of these whims constitutes what he calls happiness; but I must confess he seems totally indiffer- ent about mine, and as this is the case, I shall take what steps I think proper to se- cure some for myself. Now I have a vast desire to soe this irresistible lass of the mill, and as I know that he dines at Mr Thorn- hill's to day, this afternoon 1 will pay her a visit, and you shall accompany me.' Rebecca thought this an odd step, but she had a high opinion of IV] rs Barton's sense and prudence, and therefore prepared to at- 142 REBECCA tend her, without intimating the least disap- probation of the scheme, which she certain- ly would have ventured to do, had she not been satisfied that her lady had some very good reasons for" her conduct. About four o'clock they stepped into the chariot, and proceeded to the mill without any attendant. They left the carriage with- in half a mile of the cottage, and went thith- er on foot, pretended weariness, and asked leave to rest and have a draught of water. ' Would yon like a little wine in your water, my lady? 1 said the old woman. ' I should hadly have supposed,' replied Mrs B irion, 'that your cottage afforded such a luxury.' k Why, in good truth, we ne'er had such a thing before, and now gaffer and 1 don't much core for drinking a'nt, we'd rather have a cup of yale: hut squire that courts our Dolly sent some that he may have a lit- tle when he comes.' 'Your daughter is going to be married then?' "Tis my grand-daughter, my lady,' said the old woman, courtesying. At that mo- ment the hack door opened and in bounced Dolly. She blushed, courtesied awkward- ly, and would have spoken, but was at a loss what to say. Prepared as Mrs Barton w r as to see something extremely lovely, the charms of this little rustic surpassed her im- REBECCA. 1 £3 Agination. ' What a lovely creature, 1 said she, softly, to Rebecca, 'how could Barton be so wantonly cruel as to contaminate the soul that animates this beauteous form.' The tears started in her eyes as she spoke, but she brushed them away unperceived. -And so, my dear, you are going to be married, I undertand, and to a squire. I have some idea he is a friend of mine. 1 believe he spends much of his time here, but I think your accommodations are not very brilliant. You must give me leave to send you some better furniture, and to give orders to have your house repaired. And should your lover inquire who ordered these things, tell him it was a lady who has a great regard for him, and lives at the old-fashioned house in the park. 1 Manifold were the courtesies and awk- ward acknowledgments poured forth by the grandmother and Dolly, but Mrs Barton im- agined she saw in the countenance of the lat- ter mingled shame and regret. ' If we could save this poor girl, 1 said she to Rebecca, when they were seated again in the carriage, ' If we could save her and teach her the val- ue of the gem she has thus unconsciously thrown away, we might then lead her back to virtire, and, spite of her errors, she may yet become a valuable member of society.' The carriage drove to the nearest town, when Mrs Barton went to an upholsterer's 144 REBECCA. and ordered whatever she thought necessa- ry, to be taken immediately to the cottage; she likewise engaged a carpenter to send people the next day to begin the repairs, and on returning home, she despatched a large bundle of sheets, table-linen, &c. by a poor laborer who knew nothing of the re- ports current in the family. Rebecca easi- ly saw her lady's design, and almost trem- bled for the event; indeed Mrs Barton her- self could scarcely have been less agitated. That night Barton returned late, and having a large party to dine the next day, it was impossible for him to visit his fair dulcinen till the ensuing morning, and then, just as he was going, a gentleman arrived from town and detained him till after dinner. ' 1 shall not be at home tonight, Betsey,' said he, as he mounted his horse, ' I have an engagement with two or three jovial fellows, and shall not like to ride home late.' Mrs Barton smiled; 'I wish you a pleas- ant evening,' said she, 'and as 1 am sure of your being out of the way, I will send for my gallant.' 'You threaten well, Betsey, but I have loo good an opinion of you to fear its execution.' Tea and supper were served without Mrs Barton's being any the better for them ; she became violently agitated ; Rebecca was summoned to attend her, but alas, Rebecca could not comfort her. The clock had just REBECCA. 145 struck eleven when the bell at the great gate was rung with violence. 'He is returned,' said she, 'and a few mi- nutes will now decide my fate. My good Rebecca leave me.' Barton entered the room with the looks of a condemned criminal. 'Betsey,' said he, ' where were you the day before yesterday, and how did you employ your time?' ' Not in a manner disagreeable to you, I hope,' said she, mildly; 'I had heard how partial you were to sleeping at the mill cot- tage, and I took a ride to see if you were well accommodated; but I found the bed intolerable, and the house in such a miser- able state, I thought you ran great risks of getting cold ; so, being unwilling to lose you, I thought it was my duly, as a good wife, to provide you with better conveniences.' 'My dear Betsey, how can you talk thus calmly, when you know how much I have injured you?' 'Barton,' said she, with a firm look and voice, ' I am not now to learn that I am no longer beloved ; but it was no reason be- cause you had grown weary of home, you should trifle away your life by sleeping in a place almost entirely open to nightly dews, and unsheltered even by curtains to your bed. But mark me, my dear Barton, that I love you, 1 trust you have had innumer- able incontestible proofs; but if I am no lon- 13 146 REBECCA. ger beloved, if ray society and endearments can no longer give 3 ou pleasure, let us part. Why should you deprive yourself of the comforts and conv eniences of life ? Let our fortune t'e divided ; leave me to solitude and (piiet in this place, and take your favor- ite to the Elms. But 1 charge you, Barton, delay not a day to make her a proper set- tlement, lest you hereafter grow weary of her, and she fall a victim to poverty and in- famy. She is a beauteous flower, pity it is she was ever transplanted into the garden of folly.' 1 Betsey, 1 said he, dropping on his knees before her, and taking both her hands, v Bet- sey, you are an angel, and I am totally un- worthy your forgiveness; I see my doom, 1 see my foil}' has banished all the tenderness of your heart, and you wish to be separated from a wretch who has treated you so un- worthily.' 'You are mistaken, Barton, if you think I wish to be separated from you, could I once more be the mistress of your affections; to live with you. to love you, to promote your happiness would be the pleasure of my life, but I cannot have a divided heart; if anoth- er is preferred, let me not, by constantly witnessing your indifference towards myself, suffer pains too acute to be borne without complaining.' * Oh, Betsey ! dearest girl, forgive me, and REBECCA. 147 lake my whole, my undivided heart; do with it what you please, it never shall again wander from you, its chosen mistress.' Mrs Barton could no longer combat ihe impulse of her throbbing heart; she drop- ped her head on the forehead of her repent- ant husband, and tears of unfeigned joy rat- ified their reconciliation. 'But what must we do with poor Dully?' said she, after a pause of a few moments. 1 1 commit her to your care, my love,' re- plied Barton, 'sensible that you will do whatever is best for her future well doing; for my part, I will never see her again. - ' ' Nay, Barton, keep your passions under the guidance of reason, and you may sec her without danger.' Mrs Barton let no time elapse in merely forming plans for Doll}'. She look an op- portunity to sound Thomas's sentiments con- cerning her, and found the poor lad as deep- ly in love as ever. 'And would you be wil- ling to marry her, Thomas, provided the mill was repaired, and she had a few acres of ground well stocked?' Thomas replied in the affirmative, and Dolly being found no ways unwilling to comply, a few weeks made them man and wife. Barton desired his lady to spare no expense necessary to make them quite comfortable, and he liter- ally kept his promise of never seeing Dolly again. 148 REBECCA. But though his resolves in regard to fu- ture constancy were seriously made, his heart was made of such inflammable mattcr T t!h)t he no sooner began to contemplate the unassuming charms of Bebecca, which, from being much at home, he had now sufficient leisure to do. than he found himself puzzled to keep his good resolutions; and being un- accustomed to combat his inclinations, he found this first attempt at self-conquest too painful to be persevered in; and Mrs Bar- ton, with anguish of heart, saw he was again relapsing into indifference and inconstancy. Rebecca too saw, with evident displeas- ure, i he many opportunities he took of throw- ing himself in her way. It was sometimes impossible to avoid listening to him on a sub- ject which filled her with disgust and sor- row. He offered her several valuable trink- ets, which she resolutely refused to accept; but at length his conduct became so une- quivocal, that Rebecca determined to quit her amiable mistress, however unwilling to relinquish a situation in which she had en- joyed so much tranquillity. Mrs Barton quickly discovered the mo- tives of our heroine's intention, and honored her for them. 'You are a truly amiable girl, Rebecca,' said she, k and I will not part with you, till I can recommend you to some person who will be sensible of your value, 1 REBECCA. * 149 The next morning Mrs Barton informed her that, during a visit she had made the preceding afternoon, she had heard of a sit- uation which she thought might prove high- ly advantageous to her. ' But, perhaps,' said she, 'you would not like to leave Eng- land.' ' All places are alike to me,' said Rebec* ca; "I have so very few friends who inter* esl themselves at all in my welfare, that provided my mother gives her assent, 1 can have no objection to quitting a place where every tie is broken that once rendered it most dear to me.' 'Well then,' said Mrs Barton, 'there is a young lady who has been in England for her education; she is now about sixteen years old, of an amiable temper, and highly accomplished. Her father, who resides in America, has sent for her home, and her governess has been inquiring for a prudent well educated young person to accompany her. The terms offered are fifty guineas, and all expenses paid, and should you not approve of residing there, on your arrival, they will pay your passage back again. 'Colonel Abthorpe is a man of large for- tune; he has formerly served in the army, but at' the conclusion of the war resigned his commission, and retired to America, his lady being a native of that place. Miss Ab- thorpe goes out in about six weeks, and if 13* 150 REBECCA. you should like to accompany her, I have no doubt hut you are the kind of person that will suit her. 1 Rebecca was pleased with the proposal; she waited on the lady with whom Miss Ab- thorpe had been educated, and was highly approved of, both by her and the young la- dy herself. She then wrote to her mother, and in a few posts received a letter, dictated by her mother, but written by her sister-in- law, and in such cold slighting terms, that she easily saw they would be glad to have her so far from them, that there might be no danger of her coming home, in case of sick- ness or other contingencies; she therefore took leave of the amiable Mrs Barton, who could not part with her without tears, and who presented her with several valuable me- morials of her friendship. The day after Rebecca entered Miss Ab- thorpe's service she set off for London, where she was to join Mr Seward's family, who were to embark on board the same ship with her, and under whose protection she 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, so that they had but an untoward prospect before them, when so late in the season they embarked at Deal, on board a brig bound for Boston. A fair wind presently took them out of the channel, and REBECCA. 151, ihey flattered themselves with a prosperous voyage; but these flattering appearances were soon reversed, for the wind suddenly changed, rising almost to a hurricane, so that it was impossible to pursue their intended course, or return to port, and they contin- ued tossing about in the Atlantic till the lat- ter end of December, and then had not half made their passage, though their provisions were so exhausted that they were obliged to live on a very small allowance of bread ; of the water and salt meat which they had, together with a few pease, they were ex- tremely careful. Poor Rebecca heartily wished herself on shore again, but sensible those wishes were unavailing, she confined them to her own bosom, and exerted herself to support the spirits of Miss Abthorpe, who, naturally del- icate and unaccustomed to fatigue, was near- ly exhausted with terror, confinement and hunger. In a few weeks they were reduced almost to extremities; they had not even a candle to light the binnacle which contains the compass, and the whole of their allow- ance now amounted to one biscuit and half a pint of water per day to each person. Mr Seward had on board the ship with him, be- sides two fine boys, the one fourteen, the other twelve years old, a charming little girl scarcely seven. Mrs Seward had been dead some years, and the child was accompanied 152 REBECCA. by her nurse. The chief anguish this faith- ful servant felt was in contemplating her lit- tle charge, and thinking how she was to be preserved; indeed, to such a height did her affection rise, that she voluntarily deprived herself of part of the very small portion al- lotted her, that she might lay it by against a time of more eminent necessity for this darling of her heart.* It was. a clear cold day, the wind blowing strongly against them, when the master of the vessel entered the cabin with a smile. A smile at that particular time was received by all as a good omen, for seldom had such a thing been seen in their melancholy party. 'There is a ship bearing down upon us,' said he ; ' 1 have made signal of distress, and no doubt we shall be relieved.' Hope, sweet solace of the wretched, play- ed round the hearts of his auditors as he pronounced these words; and all who were able crawled upon deck to watch, with ea- ger eyes, the near approach of the expected relief. The vessel drew nigh, and the mas- ter inquired what was the matter. 'We are in the utmost distress,' said Mr Seward, who took upon him to answer. — ' We have been ten weeks at sea, our provi- f This was a fact, the dear woman who accompanied the author in her first voyage across the Atlantic actual- ly lived, for many days, on half a biscuit a day, to re- serve the other moiety for her. REBECCA. 1 S3 sions are exhausted, and we are in danger of starving.' 'I am sorry for it,' replied the master of the other vessel; 'but though we have a good wind now, we do not know how soon it may change, and we may want our provi- sions ourselves.'' It was in vain to attempt a reply ; the ves- sel was again put before the wind, and in a few moments the intervening billows, which rose to a tremendous height, hid her from their view. Silent and sad the disheartened mariners and passengers left the deck. Mr Seward took his little girl in his arms, his two boys hung on each side of him; he endeavored at a look of fortitude, but the gushing tears betrayed the anguish of the paternal heart. Rebecca seated herself on her bed; Miss Abthorpe looked up in her face for comfort, but she had none to offer; she sighed and rested her head on Rebecca's shoulder. 1 What shall we do?' said she, mournfully. 'Trust in God,' replied Rebecca, faintly pressing her hand. Miss Abthorpe returned the pressure, and they joined in fervently committing them- selves to the care of Him who could save to the uttermost. Ten days more passed on in this dreadful manner, when another vessel was discover- 154 REBECCA. ed, but, alas ! hope refused to cheer their bosoms with her faintest ray. 'We must make an attempt to move their compassion, however,' said the master. Mr Seward assented to the proposal, and they ascended the deck together; but Rebecca and her young lady sat pensive and silent; they hardly dared to hope, and the sweet comforts of religion forbade them to despair. The noise on the deck prevented their hearing what was said, or whether any an- swer was returned to their entreaties. In a few minutes the noise increased almost to tu- mult ; a confuted shout broke forth, which the poor listening females mistook for a mur- mur of horror and disappointment. 'They have refused us,' cried Miss Ab- thorpc, endeavoring to rise from her bed. '1 ani afraid they have, indeed,' said Re- becca ; but do not you attempt to go on deck, stay here and I will go and inquire.' With tremulous and unequal steps after repeated attempts, Rebecca reached the gang-way. She was just going to mount the steps, when her intent was frustrated by a sudden mo- tion of the ship, and she fell down.. 'Hea- ven preserve me!' said she, as she slowly arose. 'Heaven has preserved us all,' said Mr Seward, as he descended the steps, ' for look my good girl, what a dinner its bounty has sent us.' REBECCA. 155 At that moment a strange sailor came down with a large wooden bowl, in which was a fine piece of boiled beef, some pota- toes, and a piece of pudding. 'God bless your pretty hearts!' said the sailor, looking round at Rebecca, Miss Ab- thorpe, and the young Sewards, 'come, fall to, and lay in a good cargo, for, according to the log, you are light enough now.' ' You have robbed yourselves, 1 fear,' said Rebecca; 'this was intended for your din- ners.'. ' That is neither here nor there,' said he, putting a large quid of tobacco into his mouih ; ' and split my topsails if I would not rather rob myself any time, than see a bro- ther sailor want a dinner. D— — e we soon emptied the copper when we heard how close hauled j*ou were, and set old stoke galley to work, to cook more; we brought enough for all, and they have fallen to above board like a parcel of hungry sharks.' Oh ye sons and daughters of luxury, whose tables are covered with themostcost- ly viands, and who turn from them dissatis- fied and unthankful, could you feel for a mo- ment the ecstasy that pervaded the hearts of the poor, weary, famished mariners, who now were partaking the provision their char- itable brethren had brought them, you would henceforward justly conceive the happiness 1 oG REBECCA. of jour own lot, and bow with gratitude to the divine dispenser of all blessings. The friendly sailors now departed, hav- ing taken an inventory of what was most re- quisite for the relief of their brethren, and in about a hour and a half returned with their captain, and a supply of bread, cheese, meat, butter, and candles ; also a small quan- tity of spirituous liquors to refresh the men. 'We must give you a bill on the owners,' said Mr Seward, when he had taken an ac- count of the stores brought on board. 'No,' replied the generous captain, 'I shall take no bill. I expect no reward. I may one day be in the same situation, and have only done as 1 would be done by.' * Exalted humanity, noble, disinterested sailor, may you ever experience from your fellow creatures the same benevolence that expands and elevates your own heart. May your days be many, and your prosperity equal to your deserts. Having taken a grateful leave of their benefactor, they, with renovated spirits, pur- sued their voyage, and the wind changing, in the course of a few days, drove them rap- idly towards their desired haven, so that on the twenty-eighth of January, about two in * This apostrophe is the genuine emotion of gratitude, the author having, in a situation similar to the one des- cribed here, experienced relief bestowed in the same dfs- interested manner. REBECCA. 15 7 the afternoon, they heard the joyful news of i land ahead.' The port of Boston is situated in such a manner, that, after having made land, six or seven hours good sailing will take a vessel into safe harbor, so that our weary voyagers began to think of landing that evening, how- ever late it might be when they arrived ; — but as the night came on, the wind increased, accompanied by snow and sleet; the cold at the same time being intense, it froze as it fell, and in a very short period the ropes about the ship were so incased in ice that they became immovable; the darkness in- creased, and to add to their distress, they lost sight of the light-house at the entrance of the harbor. Their situation now was imminently dan- gerous ; driving before the wind, among a multitude of rocks and breakers, without the least chance of avoiding them; to be ship- wrecked in the very sight of home, was a painful trial indeed, yet this was what all ex- pected, and for which all endeavored to pre- pare themselves with patient resignation. About ten o'clock all their fears were re- alized, and a sudden shock convinced them they had struck on some rocks. The ensu- ing scene from that time till seven the nc*t morning is better imagined than described, for till that time they had no prospect of re- lief, but continued beating on the rocks, the 14 158 REBECCA. I waves washing over (hem, and expecting momentary dissolution. As the day-light advanced they discovered the island, from which the reef ran, to be inhabited. Sever- al muskets were immediately discharged, and signals hung out, and about eight o'clock they discovered people coming to their as- sistance. It was impossible to bring a boat near the vessel, but the tide beginning to leave her, the men waded into the water, and placed a ladder against her side, down which the fear of immediate death gave Miss Abthorpe and Rebecca courage to descend ; but what were the feelings of IVlr Seward, when he found the impossibility of his little daughter's going down, so dangerous was it rendered by the ice that enveloped the steps of the ladder, and whence, if she fell, she must have been dashed to pieces, or lost among the rocks; nor did he dare to ven- ture to descend himself with her in his arms, lest a false step or slip might destroy them both. But there was not time for much de- liberation, as it was absolutely necessary to leave the ship before the tide returned. At length an old sailor offered an expedient which was thought feasible; and the agitated parent fastened a strong cord round the '.«aist of his child, by which he lowered her down the side of the vessel; the old sailor caught her in his arms, and bore her exult- ingly to the shore. REBECCA. lo3 A new world was now opened to Rebec- ca, who, when she was a little recovered, beheld with astonishment how every object was bound in the frigid chains of winter. — The harbor which she could see from the house on the island, was one continued sheet of ice. The face of the country was entire- ly covered with snow, and from the appear- ance of all around she could form no proba- ble hope of getting to colonel Abthorpe's till the genial influence of spring should unbind their fetters; but in this she was agreeably mistaken, for the inhabitants of those cold cHmB4.es being accustomed 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 placed at the head to break the ice as they proceeded. By two o'clock on the thir- tieth of January, 1767, our heroine found herself once more on terra firma, comforta- bly seated at a large fire, in colonel Ab- thorpe's parlor; for during the voyage Miss Abthorpe had conceived such an esteem for her, that she insisted on her being consid- ered as a friend and sister, and her parents had too^ high a respect for their daughter, to wish to contradict so laudable a desire. 160 REBECCA. CHAPTER X. On the left hand of the entrance of Boston harbor is a beautiful liitle peninsula, called N ; ii consists of two gradually rising hills, beautifully diversified with orchards, corn-fields, and pasture land. In the valley is built a little village, consisting of about fifty houses, the inhabitants of which could just make shift to decently support a minis- ter, who on a Sunday ascended the pulpit, in a rustic temple, situated by the side of a piece of water, nearly in the middle of the village, and taught, to the utmost of his abil- ities, the true principles of Christianity. — The neck of land that joins this peninsula to the main is extremely narrow, and indeed is sometimes almost overflowed by the tide. On one side it. forms a charming picturesque harbor, in which arc a variety of small but delightfully fertile islands, and on the other it is washed by the ocean, to which it lays open. In this enchanting village stood Mr Abthorpe's house, in the midst of a neat and well cultivated garden; and here it was as the spring advanced, our contemplative he- roine beheld with rapture the rapid progress of the infant vegetation, for the earth seemed hardly released from the fleecy garb of win- ter, before it burst forth in the full bloom of vernal pride. REBECCA. 1 G 1 In this agreeable situation Rebecca re- mained nearly six years, enjoying as much felicity as she could expect in the friendship of Mr and Mrs Abthorpe and the affection of their amiable daughter. It is true she sometimes sighed when she thought of sir George Worthy — sometimes gazed on his portrait and that of his mother till her eyes, overflowing, could no longer discern them. But these were luxuries, too dangerous to be often indulged in, they only served to enervate her mind, and render her incapa- ble of enjoying the blessings placed within reach, and led her to repine at the wise dis- pensations of Providence; she therefore ex- erted her natural good sense to keep these acute sensibilities within proper restrictions, and by striving to be happy in her present situation, in a great measure became so.' — She had many admirers, and might have entered into matrimonial engagements great- ly to her advantage, but she resolutely re- fused them all, still maintaining towards each that invariable politeness and frank- ness of demeanor, as at the same moment extinguished their tenderer hopes and yet conciliated their esteem.' In the course of this time she had received two lettters from Mrs Barton, and one from her mother; the former informed her that her husband was entirely reclaimed, that she was the happiest woman in the creation, 14* 162 REBECCA. and that she hoped she should one day have Rebecca a witness to her felicity; the con- tents of the latter was not so pleasing; hen mother complained of ill-treatment from her daughter-in-law, and extravagance in her husband ; at the same time she informed her, she had just lain in of a boy, who she hoped would be the comfort of her old age. 'I wish to heaven he may,' said Rebecca, then laying down the letter and reflecting how many leagues she was from her only surviving parent; that perhaps she might be in heavy affliction, ill-treated by those on whom she had placed the firmest reli- ance, laughed at by the world, and not un- likely pinched by poverty. The gentle hearted girl burst into tears — 'Ah!' said she, 'why did 1 leave my native country? I should have remembered that my poor mo- ther had no real friend but me, on whom she could safely rely for comfort in sickness or affliction; 1 should have remembered, that though she had preferred the friendship of others to mine, it was still my duty not to leave her exposed to misfortunes, which my presence and tender assiduities might have alleviated.' About this time the unhappy breach be- tween Great Britain and her colonies arose to such a height, that it never could be heal- ed, and war, in her most frightful shape, be- gan to stalk over this once happy land. Ere REBECCA. 163 this, the inhabitants of New-England, by their hospitality and primitive simplicity of manners, revived in the mind of our heroine the golden age, so celebrated by poets. — Here were no locks or bolts required, for each one, content with his own cot, coveted .not the possessions of his neighbor; here, should a stranger make his appearance in their little village, though unknown by all, every one was eager to show him the most civility, inviting him to their houses, and treating him with every delicacy the sim- plicity of their manner of living afforded. The only house of entertainment in this village had not custom enough to support its venerable mistress with the necessaries of life ; but she had a garden, a cow, and a few acres of land, the produce of these were sufficient to supply her wants and wishes, and she would sit in her malted arm-chair, in a room whose only beauty was ' the white washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,' while the smile of content played about her face, and while she thankfully enjoyed the boun- ties of heaven, she remembered not that any could be richer or happier than herself. But when fell discord spread her sable pinion," and shook her curling snakes, how soon this blissful prospect was reversed; — frighted at the horrid din of arms, hospital-* ity fled her once favorite abode, mutual con- fidence was no more, and fraternal love gave 164 REBECCA. place to jealousy, dissension, and blind par- ty zeal. The son raised his unhallowed arm against his parent, brothers drenched their weapons in each other's blood, and all was horror and confusion. The terrified in- habitants of N left the village and took refuge in the more interior parts of the coun- try, all but Mr Abthorpe's family, who still remained, though deserted by all their ser- vants ; for the colonel had too high a regard for his royal master to join the cause of his enemies, and it was impossible to join the British troops without relinquishing all his property ; he therefore hoped the storm would soon pass over; that some method would be proposed and accepted to concili- ate matters, and in the mean time he wished to remain neuter. It was a still morning, about the latter end of July, when Rebecca, being disturbed by some little rustling at her window, raised her head, and, by the faint dawn that just glimmered from the east, discovered armed men placed round the house. Alarmed, she started from her bed and awoke Miss A b- thorpe; 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 usually slept, cried, 'look Sophia, your poor father. 1 Miss Abthorpe looked and beheld two sol- REBECCA. 165 dicrs with firelocks, who, placed at the door of the apartment, held her father a prisoner. 4 Ah, my dear mother,' said she, ; who are these, and what are they going to do? sure- ly, surely they will not murder us.' 'Don't frighten yourself, Miss, 1 said one of the men, l we do not usually murder such pretty girls. 1 1 But my father,' cried she, eagerly, ' what do you intend to do with him? 1 'Set him at liberty again when our expe- dition is over. 1 Rebecca now learnt that these were a part of the American army, who had come to N in whale boats, with a design of dragging their boats across the beach be- fore-mentioned, and proceeding to the light- house at the entrance of the harbor, intend- ing to destroy it, in order to mislead the ex- pected relief that was coming to Boston, which was at that time besieged by the American army and in possession of the British : they had before made an unsuc- cessful attempt to demolish this light-house, and were now come resolved not to leave their work unfinished ; accordingly they pro- ceeded as quietly as possible to the beach, almost carried their boats over, and arrived totally unexpected at the little island on which the light-house stood, and which was guarded by a party of marines. A smart skirmish ensued, but the Americans were 1 66 REBECCA. too numerous to he withstood by so small a party; the whole of which were either killed or taken prisoners; and having com- pleted their designs, returned to N , vic- torious, though in the utmost consternation for fear of hcing pursued by boats from the Lively frigate, and other ships that lay in the harbor. Rebecca was standing at a window as they relanded,the tears streaming down her pale face, and so entirely absorbed in terror that she was inattentive to the surrounding objects. From this slate of torpor she was aroused by a deep groan, and, raising her eyes, saw two Americans entering the house, bearing between them a wounded marine, whom they laid on the floor, and were pre- paring to depart, when Mrs Abthorpe rush- ed out of the adjoining apartment. 'What are you doing? 1 said she, 'you will not surely leave him here.' ' D n him,' cried a wretch, 'be is in our way; if he don't die quickly, we will kill him.' ' Oh, do not kill me,' said the almost expir- ing soldier ; 'lam not fit to die.' At this moment major Tupper entered. — Mrs Abthorpe addressed him in a supplicat- ing accent; 'We can procure the poor soul no assistance,' said she; 'he will perish for want of proper applications to stanch the blood,' REBECCA. 16? ' My clear madam,' said the major, ' what can we do ? we fear pursuit, and must retreat as fast as possible, and should wc take him with us, in our hurry and confusion he will, perhaps, be precipitated into eternity. If we make a safe retreat I will send for him tomorrow.' He then departed, and colonel Abthorpe being now at liberty, turned his thoughts towards the wounded soldier. Fie had fainted; a mattress was laid on the floor, and as they all united in endeav- oring to lift him upon it, the motion increased the anguish of his wounds, and recalled his languid senses. 'Oh, spare me! do not kill me!' said he, looking round with a terrified aspect. 'Be comforted,' said the colonel; 'you are among friends, who will do all in their power to save your life.' 'God will reward you,' said he, faintly. They now examined the wound, and found, from its depth and situation, that a few hours would terminate the existence of the poor sufferer: however they made long bandages of linen, and with pledgets clipped in spirits, endeavored to stanch the bleeding, but in vain. 'I am very faint,' said he. Rebecca knelt and supported him in her arms, assisted by the weeping Sophia. ' Can I live, think you, sir ?' said he, look- ing in the colonel's face. 168 REBECCA. '1 fear not,' was the reply. 1 God's will be done,' said he, ' but 1 have a long account to settle, and but a short time to do it in. Dear good Christians, pray with me — pray for me. Alas, it is dreadful to die, and with the weight of murder on my conscience.' Here he grew faint again, and ceased to speak. A cordial was admin- istered — he revived. 1 You see before you, my friends. 1 said he, 'a most unhappy man, the victim of his own folly. My father is a clergyman in the north of England; 1 am his only child, and have received from him an education suit- able to the station in which he meant to have placed me, which was the church; but, alas, I despised his precepts, and joined my- self to a set of the most dissolute compan- ions, with whom I ran into exery species of vice and debauchery. By repeated extrav- agance 1 involved my poor father, who, no longer able to supply my cxhorbitant de- mands, remonstrated against my way of life; but I was too much attached to vice to resolve to quit it, and in a fit of desperation, having lost more money than I could pay, 1 enlisted in a regiment bound to this place. Ah, sir, I have reason to think my conduct shortened my dear mother's existence, and 1 have embittered the last hours of a father, whom it was my duty to comfort and sup- port. These are heavy clogs upon my de- REBECCA. 169 parting soul, but he who witnesseth the sin- cerity of my repentance, I trust will com- passionate and pardon me.' 'No doubt of it,' cried Rebecca, whose heart was almost bursting as she listened to the expiring penitent. He looked round, and fixing his eyes on Rebecca and Sophia, 'poor girls,' said he, 'you are but young, take the advice of a dying sinner, and treasure it in your memo- ries ; obey your parents, never forsake them, and shun vicious company, for had I done this it would have been well for me in this evil day.' Rebecca's susceptible heart smote her, she hid her face with her handkerchief, and sighed deeply. 'God forever bless you, my friends !' said he, ' 1 am going, a few pangs more, and all will be over. Oh, may he, whose fatal aim took my life, have it not remembered against him ; may the Father of mercy forgive him as freely as I do.' He then commenced the Lord's prayer, but expired before he could finish it. ' Peace to his repentant spirit,' said the colonel, as he raised his weeping daughter from he"r knees. 'His poor father,' said she, 'what would he feel did he know this.' ' He felt more,' replied the colonel, ' when the misguided youth forsook the paths of 15 - 1 10 REBECCA. virtue, than he would, could he even behold him now.' The heat at this season of the year is in* tense, and the colonel knew the body of the unhappy soldier must that day be consigned to the earth, yet how to make the grave, or how to convey the corpse to it when mude, were difficulties which he could hardly think it possible to surmount, but sad necessity enforced the attempt; he fixed on a retired spot, just by the side of his garden, and be- gan the melancholy task. Rebecca and Sophia with their delicate hands endeavor- ed to assist, and by evening they had com- pleted it. The faint rays of the setting sun just tinged the summit of the highest hill; the sky was serene, and scarce a breeze was heard to move the leaves or ruffle the smooth surface of the water. Awfully impressive was the silence that reigned through this once cheerful village. As the colonel sat pensively considering his situation, and thinking how in the de- centest manner possible he could render the last sad duties to the deceased, he saw a small fishing-boat, with one man in it, draw- ing near the shore; he ran hastily down, entreated him to land and assist him in his mournful office. The body was carefully wrapped in a sheet — it was impossible to obtain a coffin\ REBECCA. 171 'We have no clergyman,' said the colonel, 1 but the prayers of innocence shall conse- crate his grave.' He gave the prayer-book to Sophia, she opened it, and with her mother and Rebec- ca followed the body. She began the ser- vice but her voice faltered, the tears burst forth, she sobbed, and could no longer ar- ticulate. The colonel took it from her; he was a man of undaunted courage in the day of battle, but here even his heart sunk, and his voice was tremulous; but he recalled his fortitude and finished the solemn rite in a becoming manner. '-What a day this has been,' said Sophia, as they were partaking a little refreshment. 'It has been a heavy day indeed, my child,' said 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 husband, or a brother. Think not of the evils we en- dure, my dear Sophia, but reflect how much more painful our situation might be than it is, and offer up your thanks to your Crea- tor, that our afflictions do not exceed our strength, and that in this solitary place we enjoy health and serenity of mind.' 'Ah,' said Rebecca, mentally, 'I do not enjoy that serenity, for my mother in afflic- tion, in want, and calling in vain upon her 172 REBECCA. daughter for comfort, is ever present to my imagination.' For several weeks the solitude of colonel Abthorpe was undisturbed, and autumn be- gan to advance. He dreaded the approach of winter, as he knew in that inclement sea- son they would feel the want of many com- forts they had been accustomed to enjoy ; and shut out from all society, how should they procure sustenance ? These reflections made him extremely unhappy. He would gladly have gone to the British troops, but had no possible means of conveying himself and family to them, and his heart revolted from the thought of going to reside with the enemies of his sovereign ; however they gave him not the choice, for the latter end of Oc- tober they despatched a party, consisting of a captain, lieutenant, and fifty men, who sur- rounded the house of the defenceless colonel, making himself, his wife, daughter, and our heroine prisoners, on pretence of his having held correspondence with the enemy. Mrs Abthorpe was a woman of a delicate, constitution. This sad reverse of fortune was more than she could well support ; a slow nervous fever preyed upon her frame ; nor could the united efforts of her husband, Sophia, and Rebecca, arouse her from the state of torpor and inaction into which she had fallen, cooped up in one single roon: (for though prisoners they had the liberty m REBECCA. 173 of walking about the place to which they had been conveyed) obliged to perform the most menial offices for themselves, with scarcely the necessaries, and none of the comforts of life, except what was supplied by a few benevolent families, who were friends to the government. It may easily be supposed colonel Abthorpe and his family acutely felt their painful situation, yet he endeavored to support himself with a be- coming fortitude. Rebecca and her young lady, in the course of a few months, learned to manage their wheels, which they plied with diligence and dexterity, sometimes they spun cotton, sometimes wool or flax, rising with the lark, and continuing their labors with unremitting industry, till the shades of night prevented their pursuing it. They would then, as the progress of the spring in- vited thern, wander out to a neighboring wood, the borders of which were washed by a narrow arm of the sea ; they would sit up- on its banks, watching the unstable element as it ebbed or flowed, admiring the rich beau- ties of the surrounding prospect. Their hearts were innocent, youth, health, and ex- ercise gave them a flow of spirits, and often as they >sat would they warble some cheer- ful air, or in an evening hymn of thanksgiv- ing, lift up their souls to their Creator. But when the summer was past, and win- ter in its dread array drew near, when the 15* 174 REBECCA. pinching blasts of December pierced bleak- ly through the crevices of their miserable habitation, and there was neither fire or necessary food to alleviate the horrors in- spired by the gloominess of the season, then it was their spirits began to flag. Sophia would gaze ardently at her mother, on whose pale countenance sickness and sorrow sat triumphant, and while, with a faint smile of tender affection, she endeavored to cheer her, the starting tear wpuld discover the de- spondency of her own heart. It was a cold evening, the snow fell fast. a very small portion of fire glowed on the hearth, and the little light in their apartment proceeded from a small lamp that was placed on a deal table; beside which sat colonel Abthorpe, his head rested on his hand, his eyes fixed in mournful contemplation on the altered face of his beloved wife, who, seated opposite to him, was diligently employed in knitting, while Rebecca and Sophia were spinning, in hopes, by the produce of their labors to increase the small, very small share of comforts they enjoyed. ' It is very cold tonight,' said the colonel, casting a melancholy look at the fire. ' I have felt it colder,' replied his lady, en- deavoring at a smile; 'besides the room is small, and a little fire warms it.' 'To be sure,' cried Sophia, 'and then, ^vhile I am at work I never think of the cold : REBECCA. 1 75 but 1 am afraid of Rebecca ; she is more delicate then 1 am.' 'Your fears are needless, my love,' re- plied our heroine. 'I should not mind the inclemency of the season, was your dear mo- ther only comfortable.' 'We think our situation hard,' said Mrs Abthorpe, ' what then is the situation of the poor soldiers ehgaged in the war.' 'Poor fellows,' said the colonel, passing his hand across his forehead, to conceal the rheum that distilled'from his eyes. At (hat moment the door of their apart- ment opened, and a stranger entered with- out ceremony. The colonel arose, Mrs Abthorpe bowed her head in token of salutation, and the young ladies suspended their work. The stranger drew a chair. ' You do not seem to be comfortably situated, colonel,' said he, as he seated himself, and cast his eyes round the room. 'No,' replied the colonel, with a deep drawn sigh, 'comfort and 1 have long been strangers to each other.' 'Mrs Abthorpe looks ill,' said the stran- ger; ' has she had any advice? 1 'The humanity of some friends, sir, have procured her every medical assistance; but, alas! in vain — the malady is seated in her mind.' ' I was inquiring about you the other day," 1 76 REBECCA. said the stranger, 'and was sorry to hear you were so badly supplied with the neces- saries of life A plan has since struck me by which you may be relieved from your present distresses, and restored to the ease and affluence you have been heretofore ac- customed to enjoy.' This was at once calling forth the atten- tion of his auditors. Mrs Abthorpe raised her languid eyes to his face, Sophia and Re- becca instinctively drew near, the colonel listened in silence, and the stranger pro- ceeded. 'Our army at present is in want of expe- rienced officers: you do not hold any com- mission under the king of England.' 'But I have eat his bread, sir,' said the colonel, hastily. Mrs Abthorpe sighed, and relapsed into her accustomed pensive state. 'If you would accept a commission in our army,' said the stranger, 'your property would be again restored, and ample com- pensation made for the losses you have sus- tained.' The colonel shook his head, and made a rejecting motion with his hand. ' You will be raised to a rank superior to any you have held in the British army, and your name will be immortalized as one of the glorious supporters of American liberty.' REBECCA. 177 The colonel frowned and was going to speak, but the stranger interrupted him: ' You will have the felicity of seeing your amiable wife and lovely daughter enjoying again the elegancies of life. Pleasure will once more inhabit their bosoms, and enliven their features.' The colonel gazed tenderly on his wife and daughter, paused, and seemed irreso- lute. IVlrs Abthorpe read his heart. ' And what,' said she, addressing the stran- ger, 'are the elegancies of life, when the mind no longer retains its own approbation ! It is true, sir, the present change in our cir- cumstances has awakened some painful sen- sations; but it has not made us unhappy. I do not repine, for, though unfortunate, we are not despicable ; our integrity has ever been unshaken, and, 1 trust, will ever re- main so.' 'True, my love,' said the colonel, recol- lecting himself, 'we will bear the present evils patiently, and hope for better days in future.' ' But I would have you weigh this matter maturely, colonel,' said the stranger, ' before you pretend to decide.' '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 best of sovereigns: — 178 REBECCA and, allow rae to say, I consider such offers as insults to my honor.' •It is well, sir,' said the stranger, rising, 'if your resolution is taken, 1 will say no more on the subject; but you will please to prepare your family for leaving this place tomorrow. You are to be conveyed twen- ty miles further into the country.' ' Further into the country, sir!' said the colonel, starting, ' my wife is unable to bear the journey.' Sophia turned deathly pale, and left the room with Rebecca. k Do not he uneasy, my dear Abthorpe,' said the amiable wife ; ' I make no doubt but He. who, for his own wise purposes, suffers us thus to be afflicted, will endue me with strength of mind and body to bear it as be- comes a Christian.' The stranger walked across the room. — He was a man of feeling, and had very un- willingly undertaken this commission. He was possessed of every virtue that could el- evate the human heart. He had been taught to think the cause, in which he was engaged, was a right cause. He was young; his bo- som glowed with enthusiastic ardor. Can we blame him? for, though attached to the cause of his country, he was still more so to that of humanity. ' I am sorry — ' said he ; but a disagree- REBECCA. 179 able oppression upon the lungs prevented his proceeding further. The colonel involuntarily took him by the hand — ; And had you, my dear sir, been tempted to desert your country's cause — what says your heart? Would private inter- est have triumphed over the spirit of patri- otism that animates your bosom ?' 'I have no wife and child,' said he. The feelings of sensibility could no longer be re- strained, but rushed impetuous from his eyes, and, though he was a man of undoubted val- or, he did not blush to indulge them. 'Let those blush,' said he, mentally, ' who cannot sympathize with an afflicted fellow-creature.' 'But suppose,' said Mrs Abthorpe, laying her hand on his arm (for he had mechanic- ally stopped beside her) 'suppose, sir, you had a wife who would feel more for your de- viation from rectitude, than she would to en- dure the hardest pangs of poverty and sick- ness, and who would rather die than see you an apostate to the cause you had vowed for ever to espouse?' He turned abruptly from her; something that spoke within forbade him to answer. 'And what have I done,' said the colonel, ' that I must leave a place where I have ex- perienced such friendship — such disinterest- ed affection from many of the inhabitants?' ' You are too near the sea-coast,' said the ISO REBECCA stranger, • and may hold correspondence with the enemy.' He averted his eye from the colonel's face, and pretended to consult his watch. — 'It is later than 1 thought,' said he, endeav- oring at indifference in his voice and manner. 'At eight o'clock tomorrow I expect you will be removed. God bless you, my dear madam !' respectfully taking Mrs Abthorpe's hand. She saw the feelings of his soul depicted in his face, and forbore to increase them by unnecessary complaint. 'The change of air may do mc good, sir,' said she, with a smile 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, hastily left the room. GPIAPTER XI. ' And must we leave this place, my dear father ?' said Sophia, coming from a small adjoining apartment, whither she had re- tired to indulge the tears she was no longer able to restrain : ' must we be separate!! REBECCA. 1 8 ! irom those friends whose generous attentions have lightened all our afflictions?' 'We must, Sophia,' said her father, rath- er sternly, 'tomorrow morning.' 'Ah! me,' said the weeping girl, turning to Rebecca, and resting her head on her shoulder. ' Do not grieve thus, my dear Sophia,' said our heroine; 'for, though separated from your friends, you will still live in their remembrance, and they in yours? ' Yes, T cried Sophia, with a look of grate- ful rapture, 'ever while the vital tide nour- ishes my heart; dear, worthy inhabitants of Hingham, when I forget the friendship that alleviated my parents' sorrows may that heart cease to beat!' The next morning, just as the gray dawn began to enliven the east, Mr Abthorpe's family were called to begin their journey. An open chaise, drawn by a miserable horse, was all the conveyance provided for Mrs Abthorpe, Sophia and Rebecca; the colonel himself was expected to walk. About nine o'clock in the morning they set out, but the roads were so heavy, and the horse so old and lame, that though they had only a jour- ney of v fiftecn miles to make, they had not completed it at four in the afternoon. The darkness of the night began to envelope ev- ery object, when the chaise stopped at a hut (hat could scarcely be called habitable. Re- 16 182 REBECCA. becca and Sophia assisted Mrs Abthorpc to alight; gloomy as was the outward appear- ance of their destined habitation, the inside served only to increase their horror; it con- sisted of three rooms, the windows had once been glazed, but were now some parts open, and others mended with wood. One room indeed, 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 desolate and gloomy. It was now quite dark, the colonel had not .yet arrived. Rebecca and Sophia felt round the damp solitary rooms for something on which Mrs Abthorpe might sit down, for she was faint and weary from taking no refresh- ment during their tedious journey, and hav- ing been exposed to the intense cold so ma- ny hours; but their search was in vain, no seat could be found ; they took off their own cloaks, and laid them on the floor: on these she sunk, weak and exhausted, and in spite of her accustomed fortitude, suffering nature wrung from her a few complaints. Rebec- ca and Sophia knelt beside and supported her — the voice of comfort no longer issued from their lips — their sighs responsive an- swered hers — their tears mingled as they fell — but all remained silent. They heard footsteps approach — the col- onel's well know voice saluted their ears. REBECCA. 183 ' Dry your eyes, my dear girls,' said Mrs Abihorpe ; ' Let us not increase his sorrows, whose every pang is doubled by our suf- ferings.' The colonel entered — some one accompa- nied him, for they could hear more than one footstep. ' We shall have a fire soon,' said the col- onel ; ' it is a very cold evening.' ' But 1 am well wrapped up, and do not feel it,' said Mrs Abthorpe. His heart thanked her, though it refused to believe her assertion. Just then a third person entered, and threw down an armful of wood, when the person who had accompanied the colonel, produced a tinder-box, and striking a light, discovered to the astonished females the sons of two of their best friends. Mr Lane! Mr Barker] involuntarily burst from all their lips; but the generous young men would not hear a word of praise or thanks; they soon cheered the solitary man- sion with a comfortable fire; in the mean time a small cart arrived with two beds, a few chairs, and some kitchen utensils. From a basket in this cart the young men produced a coufiie of fowls, some butter, bread, and two bottles of wine, so that in less than two hours, from their first melancholy entrance, our distressed family were sitting in homely wise round an old wainscot-table, before a 134 REBECCA large fire, partaking a plentiful supper, v\ hile their hearts expanded with gratitude to that good Providence who had thus raised them up friends when least expected. The next morning the young men exerted themselves to repair the breaches in the win- dows, and to stop the large crevices in the doors of the house. Having to the utmost of their power lessened their troubles, and rendered them tolerably comfortable, they departed, leaving behind them some meat, bread, butter, cheese, and a small parcel of tea and sugar; but as the last named articles were at that time extremely scarce they could not be so liberal as their expanded hearts led them to wish. Oh ! with what rapture must the parents of these young men have received them af- ter such a journey, to which they had been excited by motives of the purest benevo- lence; but benevolence was their charac- teristics. Blest spirits of philanthropy, the hearts of whom, ere discord shook her baneful wings, and shed her influence over your hap- py plains, in a stale of almost primeval in- nocence, felt not a pang, but for another's woe, and whose first pleasure was to allevi- ate the sorrows of a suffering fellow-crea- ture ! May the arrows of affliction, with which she has since wounded you, be drawn forth by the hand of sympathizing friend- REBECCA. 185 ship, and the anguish of them obliterated by the remembrance of your own good deeds. But this is a theme which carries me from every other. I would request pardon for digressing from my subject, but I know those only will blame me, who never felt the sweet emotions of unbounded gratitude. But to return — The habitation, to which colonel Abthorpe had been thus suddenly removed, was situ- ated on the skirts of an extensive wood. The face of the country was rocky and dreary, (o which unpromising appearance the snow and ice not a little contributed. There was but one habitation within two miles of them, and that was occupied by people, if possible, more wretched than themselves. In this dismal situation, with no amuse- ment, but what sprang from themselves, for they had not even the consolation of books, did the colonel and his family pass four wearisome months, during which time they had often no food but coarse Indian bread and potatoes; nor any firing but what So- phia and Rebecca assisted each other to bring in their delicate arms from the adja- cent woods, for the colonel himself was a great part of that time confined to the house with the gout, and in their daily excursion to procure this necessary appendage to the support of life in so cold a climate, they had no covering to their feet, which often bled 16* J 06 UEBECCA from the inlenseness of the cold, or from in- cisions made by the rugged path over which they were obliged to pass. It was the latter end of March, the ice was beginning to dissolve in the w r armth of a mid-day sun, when Rebecca, willing to enjoy a short space of uninterrupted reflec- tion, sallied into the woods, unaccompanied by Miss Abthorpc. As she gathered up some scattered branches, and laid them to- gether, her thoughts wandered to her native land. She retraced every event of her past life. ' And where now is sir George?' said she. 'Could he behold me at this instant, how would his generous heart compassionate my misfortunes ; but, alas ! perhaps 1 am no more remembered by him, or he considers me as numbered w ith the dead ; and am 1 not so to him ? Then, why should 1 wish him to retain me in his mind, when, by forgetting me, he may regain that felicity his generous sentiments in my favor had interrupted. No doubt, he is long since married to the lady with whom his mother wished him to unite. Ah! my beloved benefactress,' continued she, sitting down on a large stone at the foot of a spreading 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 unre- mitting portion of your Rebecca.' She then drew forth the picture which, REBECCA. 187 through all her distress, she had still care- fully preserved, and constantly carried in a small purse, in which she had also deposited sir George's letter, and those she had re- ceived from her mother. As she opened this precious repository, her mother's writ- ing caught her eye. ' My poor mother,' said she, ' what waves, what insurmountable waves, now roll be- tween us! shall I ever, again behold you? or is it my fate here, far distant from my native land, to end an existence, which tho' short, has been marked by variety of sor- row?' Here painful remembrance overpow- ered her. She rested her cheek on her hand, and as she held the picture in the oth- er, alternately raising her streaming eyes to heaven, and then fixing them on the por- trait of sir George. She was aroused from this painful revery by a deep drawn sigh which seemed to pro- ceed from a person very near her, and, start- ing, saw a venerable old man standing op- posite her, habited in a lieutenants dirty uniform. She arose, and tying her bundle of wood together., was preparing to lift it, when the old officer approached. 'It is too heavy for you, child,' said he, 'give me leave to carry it.' ' 1 have not far to go, sir,' said she. 'Perhaps you are going to the unfortun- 188 REBECCA. ate colonel Abthorpe's habitation, or can di- rect me where to find it?' 1 1 live in his family,' said Rebecca, eager- ly, 'do you know him, sir?' ' Alas! no, my dear child; but hearing he was a prisoner at this place, and being my- self in the same unhappy predicament, 1 am going to claim his society, hoping that, as brothers in affliction, we may be enabled to comfort each other : but, surely, 1 have seen you before, though where or when I can by no means recollect. 1 'Your features too,' said Rebecca, 'seem familiar to me, yet 1 do not think we ever met before.' They had now reached the house, and depositing their burthen at the door, entered. 'You will pardon me, sir,' said the old lieutenant, advancing to the colonel, 'if un- asked, 1 intrude myself inlo your dwelling ; but hearing there was an officer in this place, J could not resist the desire 1 felt to become known to him.' 'And by what name am 1 to know, and thank you for this civility ?' said the colonel, placing a chair for his guest. 'My name is Littleton.' 'Littleton! 1 cried Rebecca, stepping ea- gerly forward. 'Yes; George Littleton.' said the lieuten- ant. ' And I have worn his majesty's livery above twenty years.' REBECCA. 189 ; My name is Littleton,' said Rebecca. : And your father's name V 'Was William.' 1 He is dead then,' said Mr Littleton, with a disappointed look. Rebecca's tears confirmed the suspicion. 'And did you never hear him speak of a brother?' ' Yes; but as one long since dead.' 'Alas! he thought me dead, but 1 am that brother-, nor can I doubt but you are his child, you bear so strong a resemblance to him. My dear girl,' continued he, embrac- ing her, k how my heart bleeds to meet you here, and so badly sheltered from the in- clemency of the season.' A few moments were now devoted to mu- tual gralulations and mutual condolence. — When the first tumult was a little subsided, Rebecca wished to be informed how it hap- pened that her uncle had been so long sup- posed dead by her father.' ' Disappointment and vexation,' said the old gentleman, 'drove me from my native country; the loss of a wife and child, whom ] tenderly loved, disgusted me with life, and J shipped myself to the East-Indies, whence I hoped'never to return. ' 1 am several years younger than was your father, and was placed by an old uncle with a wealthy merchant, with whom he 1 90 REBECCA. promised to establish me, when I had served my clerkship with honor. 'My master had an only child; she was not what is usually called 1 ^ beauty, but she was in my eyes more. Her features were regular; the gentleness of her spirit threw a softness over her countenance, which at once prepossessed every beholder in her favor. Added to the meekness, and forgiving spirit of a Christian, she possessed all the intrepid fortitude and courage of a Roman matron. The innocence of her heart inspired her with unaffected cheerfulness, and a most en- gaging vivacity was tempered with a mod- est simplicity. 'Such was Rosa Bcn=on ; when at the age of eighteen she was sent for from France, where she had been educated, to take the care of her father's house, her mother hav- ing been taken suddenly off by an apoplexy. I was just two years older, and could not be- hold unmoved, the innumerable charms that were daily displayed by this engaging girl. She plaj'ed upun the harpsichord with great taste and execution; had a soft melodious voice, and sung with judgment. Her mind had been carefully cultivated, which render- ed her a well informed rational companion. 'Mr Benson generally spent his evenings abroad, and ] frequently passed many hours in uninterrupted conversation with the de- lighting Rosa. I will not attempt to dclinc- REBECCA. 191 ate the various imperceptible degrees by which our hearts became attached to each other; suffice it to say, we felt the power of love mingled with the purest friendship; — nor did we once reflect on the imprudence of indulging our sensibility till awakened from our dream of bliss by Mr Benson in- forming his daughter, that her hand was so- licited by an earl, and that he had given him leave to address her; at the same time he gave her to understand, he did not expect any opposition to his will, and flattered him- self he should soon behold her a countess. 'When Miss Benson informed me of this unhappy stroke, 1 felt as though annihilated. I threw myself at her feet, and entreated her not to make me one of the most wretch- ed of human beings, by accepting my noble rival. She assured me she had Loo high a sense of honor to give her hand to one man, while her heart was entirely devoted to an- other, but still 1 was unhappy: nor did I cease soliciting the dear girl till she consent- ed to be mine by the strongest of all ties, and by a private marriage I secured to my- self, as I then thought, the most permanent felicity. ^ Still "the earl continued his assiduities; but Rosa found means to evade her father's earnest wishes, and a more wealthy woman falling in his lordship's way, who had no ob- jection to making the exchange of money for 192 REBECCA. a title, she was, from that moment, delivered from further importunity. 'About six months after our marriage, it became necessary for Mr Benson to send a person to the West-Indies, with power to set- tle some business with the merchants there; it was a lucrative employment. He men- tioned to my uncle that 1 might, if I chose, undertake the voyage. My uncle acqui- esced. There was no alternative, and I was under the necessity of leaving my wife, whom I could by no means persuade to ac- quaint her father with our marriage previous to my departure. ' During my absence I was much surprised at receiving no letters from my dear Rosa ; but as I was sensible there might be various causes for this apparent neglect, il only led me to greater diligence in my business, as I knew the sooner it was finished, the sooner 1 should return to the wife of my choice, the friend of my bosom. At length it was com- pleted, and I returned to my native land, af- ter being absent about thirteen months. 'Eagerly did 1 count the minutes while travelling from Deal to London; and when the chaise slopped at Mr Benson's door, my heart throbbed with such violence that 1 could hardly speak. I alighted, and ran hastily up stairs; but was much surprised, on entering the drawing-room, to behold a strange lady there, young, handsome, and REBECCA. 193 * elegantly dressed. Mr Benson mentioned her as his wife. 'And where is-my Rosa? said I. 1 'She is not at home,' replied Mr Benson, coolly ; ' but, come Littleton, take your tea, and then we will go into the counting-house, and talk over business. ' Conscious as 1 was of the near interest I took in every thing that concerned Rosa, I forbore to mention her again, lest the agita- tion of my mind should be betrayed by my countenance; 1 took my tea in silence, and then descended with my master to his count- ing-house, where, in as concise a manner as possible, I gave him an account of the busi- ness I had been sent upon, and delivered to him all the bills and other papers I had brought with me from Jamaica; this em- ployed us till near one o'clock in the morn- ing, and, fatigued as I was, I could not but be surprised that my hitherto indulgent mas- ter should have no thought of the long voyage and journey I had just arrived from, and that I certainly required rest. 'When we had entirely finished, he thus addressed me :' ' 1 promised you. Littleton, that this should be a lucrative business to you, there (open- ing a pocket-book) there are bills amounting to two hundred pounds; and now, sir, let me tell you, that you are a knave and a villain, a designing, deceitful scoundrel, who, under 17 1$4 REBECCA. ihc ma?k of honor and probily, have robbed me of my daughter, stolen her affections, and encouraged her in disobedience. It is to your arts I owe her refusal of the earl of , and, had she not been your wile, she would at this moment have been a duchess.' ' 1 had sat as one petrified during this speech ; but on his again calling me by the opprobrious names already mentioned, I at once roused myself and endeavored to an- swer; but his passion, like a torrent, bore down all before it, and I was obliged to be silent. At length he told me he had dis- claimed his daughter, that he had sent her from his house, and would never give her a single farthing; no, not even to keep her from starving. ' But go,' continued he, 'go to her, and may you both, with your brat, starve to- gether.' 'The mention of a child operated on my nerves like a stroke of electricity. ' And where are they, sir,' said I, starting from my seat, 'where are my Rosa and her in- fant?' 'Somewhere in the country,' said he, 'but I don't concern myself with them, nor do 1 ever wish to see you or her again. You have disappointed me in my dearest hopes, and I will seek consolation in the company of an amiable woman, who may, perhaps, bring REDECCA. 1 95 mc children, more dutiful than the ungrate- ful viper you have married.' ' He then flung out of the room, and I, too much irritated to remain in a house where I had been so ill treated, was preparing to leave it, when the door opened, and one of the housemaids entered, looking carefully round her. '1 am glad you are come, sir,' said she; ' my poor young lady will rejoice to see you. 1 ' Where is she, Betty? 1 said I. ' At Windsor, 1 replied the girl, ' at my sis- ter's, but she has never been well since mas- ter was born. 1 ' 1 took a direciion from the girl, and set off as quick as I could get a chaise. ' It was between five and six when I ar- rived -it Windsor, and having ordered some breakfast, though I had no inclination to eat, 1 sen! fur the woman with whom my love lodged, and finding her a discreet sensible person, intrusted her with a letter, to be de- livered cautiously to the dear creature, who I found was in a very alarming state. ' In about two hours. 1 was summoned to the cottage that contained all my treasure; but, good heaven! how shall I describe my sensations at the sight of my wife, scarcely the shadow of her former self — pale, thin; her eyes sunk, heavy and devoid of lustre ! 'George, 1 said she, putting her dear boy into my arms, 'you arc come home in time 196 REBECCA. to receive this pledge' of my love, and to close my eyes ; but 1 shall die content, sen- sible that you will be a kind father to my child.' ' I endeavored to cheer her, and inspire her with hopes which I could not rationally indulge myself. I procured the best medi- cal advice, but all in vain; she grew worse and worse, and expired in less than a fort- night after my arrival in England. 'Previous to her death, she informed me that another more splendid offer of marriage, strenuously urged by herfather, had wrung from her the secret of our marriage, and that she was immediately dismissed from her fa- ther's house in a most disgraceful manner; that she had written to my uncle, claiming his protection, if not on her own account, for the sake of the unborn infant; but his answer was, that as 1 chose to marry with- out consulting him, I might maintain her as I could, for he would never more do any thing for me ; and as to her, he thought she must have behaved very ill when her own father had discarded her. From that time he entirely withdrew his favor from me, and though 1 went to him soon after the death of my wife, 1 was not permitted to see him. 'About this time your father, who was then an ensign in a marching regiment, was ordered to Ireland. I had not seen him for some years, as he had been stationed at REBECCA. 197 Plymouth'; but could not let him leave the kingdom without taking a personal leave ; I therefore left my dear boy with the good woman where my Rosa had lodged, and set off for that place. ' 1 had not been with my brother above three days before I received a letter from the nurse, informing me that my boy had been carried off by a convulsion fit the day after I left Windsor. The world now ap- peared to me a universal blank. I consid- ered myself as a mere cipher, without fam- ily, connexion or friends, and possessing but a small portion of worldly goods. 1 had formed an acquaintance with several officers belonging to one of his majesty's ships going to China ; a desire of roving took possession of my mind. 1 had, when a boy, been fond of the study of mathematics, and during my voyage to Jamaica had contracted a fond- ness for a nautical life, I therefore requested to be admitted on board the Triton, and was accepted. ' In this ship 1 went to the East-Indies, ful- ly resolved never to visit England again. — This resolution I kept inviolate for many years, always changing into some ship sta- tioned in those parts whenever the one I was in was remanded home. In his majesty's service 1 arose by degrees to the rank of lieutenant, and my ambition had led me to hope, during this war, I should have risen 17* 190 REBECCA. still higher; for the ship I was in being or- dered home, and 1 unable to obtain an ex- change into one stationed in India, returned to England, and was soon after sent in a cut- ter with expresses to the fleet at New-York^ whence I was despatched to Boston, where I unfortunately arrived after the evacuation by his majesty's troops, and of course fell into the hands of the enemy. I have been detained a prisoner now nearly two years, frequently removed from one place to an- other, and every removal is for the worse; but 1 hear there is now an exchange of pris- oners talked of, so I hope to be included in the cartel. 1 'But did you never write to my father?' said Rebecca. 'Yes ; frequently during the first years of my absence from Europe; but never receiv- ing any answers, owing, as I imagined, to the unsettled life a soldier in general leads, I at length ceased to write. When I was last in England I inquired for him of some of our old friends, and learned that he was married, and had one child; but they could give no information where he was settled, as they had neither seen nor heard from him for many years,' Rebecca felt a gleam of comfort dilate her affectionate heart at having thus unexpect- edly found a relation. ' I am not then en- tirely unconnected,' said she, mentally, at REBECCA. 199 the same time laying her hand on that of her uncle, and looking at him with eyes swimming with filial tenderness, excited by the strong resemblance he bore to her fa- ther. v My dear girl, 1 said he, 'you have found an old uncle who will love you with all his heart, and defend you to the last hour of his existence; but I am as poor, Rebecca, as when I first put on his majesty's livery. In all my long service I have not picked up above two hundred pounds prize money, and thinking I had no one to take it after me, I have spent it as fast, or, perhaps, some- times faster than 1 gained it. But my pay has been running so long, we shall be quite rich when I get home, and you shall call me father, and make up to me the loss of my Rosa and her boy. 1 ' I will be your daughter in every sense of the word, 1 said Rebecca, affectionately kiss- ing his hand. The conversation now took a more gen- eral turn; colonel Abthorpe was delighted with the acquisition of a friend. They could not think of parting till evening, nor then without a mutual promise of maintaining a frequent intercourse. 200 REBECCA. CHAPTER XII. When colonel Abthorpe retired to rest, he revolved in his mind what Mr Littleton had said concerning an exchange of prisoners, his wife's declining health had long made him uneasy. He flattered himself was he once removed from captivity, and enabled to obtain subsistence for his family, her mind would be more at ease, and she would of consequence recover her health and spir- its. These reflections occupied him all night, and totally banished sleep. At dawn of day he arose, and sat down to draw up a petition, praying to be, with his family, included in the intended exchange. This petition he presented to the General Court. The an- swer he received was a repetition of the of- fers of employment in the American army, enforced with the most beneficial and lucra- tive rewards for his services. These he strenuously rejected, declaring a resolution to die rather than forsake the cause of loy- alty. They found it was in vain to increase their offers; he continued unmoved. If he sighed it was in secret, and he waited with an assumed patience the end of his misfor- tunes, while the most afflictive sensations corroded in his bosom. But when he had almost bidden adieu to hope, when despair seemed to have taken possession of his mind, REBECCA. 201 then was deliverance nearest at hand, and he received a letter, informing him that he was to be exchanged with his family, by the very next cartel. They were accordingly removed to Boston, and, in company with Mr Littleton, put on board a small vessel, bearing a Aug of truce, in which they ar- rived, after ten days' passage, safe at Hal- ifax. Here Mr Littleton was immediately em- ployed, and drew on his agent for money to provide himself and Rebecca with necessa- ries ; nor did he withhold part of his little store from colonel Abthorpe, who was real- ly in necessitous circumstances. Mrs Ab- thorpe's malady had gained too much on her delicate constitution ever to be repelled. — She continued to decline, and, in a few days after their arrival in Nova-Scotia, she sunk to eternal rest. Rebecca exerted herself to comfort poor Sophia; but it was now be- come absolutely necessary for them to part. Colonel Abthorpe had not the means even of supporting himself and daughter, much less an extra person ; besides, Rebecca was eager to revisit England, and see her moth- er; he therefore furnished her with recom- mendatory letters to several ladies in Lon- don. Her uncle provided her a passage, and gave her an order on his agent for the small remainder of all his worldly wealth. She took an affectionate leave of her dear 202 REBECCA. Miss Abthorpe, and embarked for her na- tive land. It seemed as (hough the elements were as eager to convey our heroine in safe- ty home, as they had been perverse and tar- dy bearing her thence; for on the twenty- eighth day from her leaving Halifax, at the close of the evening, she found herself set down at the door of the Cross-keys inn, in Grace-Church Street, London. She had landed with a widow lady and her maiden sister, who came in the ship with her at Deal, and they proceeded to town in a post- chaise. She remained at the inn with them that night, and the next morning set out in a coach to seek the benevolent friend of Mrs Harris in the borough. She was removed, but Mrs Harris herself occupied the house; Rebecca, therefore, met a hearty welcome, and determined to take up her abode with hc*r till she could hear from her mother, to whom she immediately wrote. Anxiously did she count the time till she thought if possible to receive an answer. — At length the welcome sound of a postman's rap saluted her ears. She almost flew to the door. The letter required double post- age ; she paid it without hesitation, and hast- ily returned to the parlor to examine its con- tents ; but as she approached the candle, what were her feelings to discover it was her own letter returned, with these words written on the outside : REBECCA 203 * Removed to London two years ago.' 'To London!' said Rebecca; 'but what part of London? Gracious heavens! that I should be in the same place with my moth- er, and yet unable to find her ! But, perhaps, 3 have no mother now,' continued she, sor- rowfully, 'she has been removed two years; alas! sorrow may have levelled her with the dust long since. 1 She then endeavored to recollect some person in her native village, to whom she could address herself, in hopes of gaining in- formation whether her mother had mention- ed what part of the town she intended to re- side in. At length she recollected the pa- rents of Ruth, who had lived several years a servant in the family, and was with them when her father died. To them she imme- diately wrote, and as early as she could possibly expect, received the following an- swer: * MY DEAK YOUNG MISTRESS, 'This comes with father and mother's kind love to you, letting you know that wc are all main glad to hear you are alive, and come home again to old England; for, cer- tain sure, we all thought you had been dead a long while ago; so when father put on his spectacles, and began to read your let- ter. 1 thought as how r should have sounded for joy ; indeed, and for sarten, Miss Becky. 204 REBECCA. I would walk a many long miles to see your sweet face. Oh! dear, if you was but as rich and as happy as you are good, and as we all wish you ' As to your mother, we are deadly afraid she has made but a poor hand of marrying again, for old Serle was but a shabby kind of body, though he pretended to be so grand, and tried to make folks believe he was a gentleman. 4 To be sure, they did flash away about a month or two after they were married, and Peg Serle had a mortal sight of new clothes, but for all she never looked like a lady. — Father said as how you looked more like one in a linen gown, and your nice curling hair without powder, than she did in her fine silks and satins, and her hair plastered up with grease and flour; but after all they did not hold out so long. Serle did not use your poor foolish mother well; he kept a hussy almost under her nose, and used to be al- ways drinking and sotting, and so the finery all went away by littles an littles, and then they got sadly in debt, and at last went off to London, without letting any body know- about it ; but cousin Dick was in London last Martinmas twelve months, and he said he saw Mrs Serle go into a house in Westmin- ster, but she looked main shabby, and we never since heard any thing about her. 'Father bid me tell you, that he read in REBECCA. 205 the newspapers how that sir George Wor- thy is married to a great lady ; but father says, he could not have found a more bet- ter lady than your own sweet self, be the other who she may; and we all thought as how when lady Mary (bless her dear name !) took you to live with her, that we should one day see you come back to the village, lady of the manor ; but it can't be helped, marry- ing and hanging, they say, goes by fate. — Mother and father send their kind love and duty to you, wishing you a good rich hus- band, and soon; and so no more at present from yours to serve till death. RUTH RUSSET.' When Rebecca had finished reading this letter, her mind was in a state of anarchy, better imagined than described. She sat with the letter open on the table before her, her hands folded in each other, her eyes fix- ed on vacancy. 4 Well, what news, my dear?' said Mrs Harris, as she came into the room, and with- out particularly observing Rebecca, very leisurely stirred the fire as she spoke to her. 'He^is married,'' replied Rebecca uncon- sciously. 'Well, child, you were acquainted with that before, I thought.' 'No, indeed; this is the first I have ever heard of it.' 18 206 REBECCA. 'Why, how you talk!' said Mrs Harris, staring at her; 'to my certain knowledge she wrote you word of it herself.' ' Who wrote me word of it?' 'Why, your mother, child.' 'Oh, my mother.!' cried Rebecca, trying to rally her scattered thoughts, then paus- ing for a moment, k my poor mother,' con- tinued she, bursting into tears, I 1 fear 1 shall never see her more.' There was a wildness in her looks, an in- coherence in her manner, that alarmed the compassionate Mrs Harris. She drew a chair, and sat down beside her, took both her hands in hers, pressed them tenderly, but remained silent. This was a conduct more congenial to the mind of Rebecca than the most eloquent harangue could have been. She rested her head on the bosom of her friend, gave a free vent to her tears, and, by degrees, regained a tolerable degree of com- posure. When Rebecca had repelled the violence of her first emotions, on finding sir George was really lost to her, her mother's unfor- tunate marriage, and its consequences re- curred to her mind ; she retired to bed, but not to rest ; sleep was a stranger to her eyes, and her thoughts were so harassed, that in the morning her heavy eyes, pale lips, and burning hands, alarmed Mrs Harris. 'Come, come, my child.' said she, gently REBECCA. 207 shaking her, ' I must not see you in this way ; you are far from well now, and if you go on fretting thus, I shall have you quite laid up. You must rOuse yourself, my dear ; it is very wrong to give way to sorrow for misfortunes that are irremediable. Chance may, per* haps, discover in what part of the town your mother is; in the mean time you must not neglect your own interest. You have never waited on any of the ladies to whom colonel Abthorpe gave you letters. I will have you dress yourself this very day, and gn to some of them. Perhaps you may meet with a sit- uation where, by having your mind constant- ly-occupied, you will have no time to fret yourself to death, which I foresee will be the case if you are left to yourself. 1 'Indeed, Mrs Harris, 1 have no cause to wish for life,' said Rebecca, in a melancholy accent; 'for in the whole world I have no friend but ^ou and my poor uncle; him, per- haps, I shall never see again, and. you, 1 fear, Will get weary of such a child of sorrow.' 'Now you are very unkind, Rebecca, to suppose me capable of neglecting } 7 ou, or be- ing wearied by your complaints. No, my child," 1 feel for you every thing friendship and affection can feel for a beloved object; and it is because 1 think it necessary to your health that you should be roused from this slate of inaction, that makes me willing to be deprived of your society ; besides, my dear. 208 REBECCA. your mother may be, nay, in all probability, is alive ; and, at some future period, you may have it in your power to render her happy and comfortable in her latter hours by your tenderness and filial love ; for her sake then, exert your natural good sense, and bear your afflictions with becoming resignation; it is a duty you ovVe to her, to yourself, and to your Creator.' 'Oh! Mrs Harris,* cried Rebecca, ' par- don my petulance; 1 seethe friendly design of your advice, and will exert myself to fol- low it.' She nowliegan to look over her letters and determined to wait that morning on la- dy Winterton. Rebecca's dress was plain and neat in the extreme, yet there was a dignity in her per- son and manner of address that ever com- manded respect; she, therefore, on knock- ing at lord Winlerton's door, was immediate- ly ushered into a parlor, and the servant took the letter to his lady. The lady was at her morning toilet. She cast her eyes hastily over the letter. 'What kind of a person brought this let- ter, Thomas?' said she to the man who wait- ed just without the door of the dressing-room. 'A very genteel young woman,' replied the man-. 'Well show her into the breakfast-parlor. REBECCA. 209 and tell her I shall be with her presently. Is my lord up?' ' Ws, ray lady, he is just gone down.' 'Well, go, do as I bid you.' The man departed, and Rebecca was de- sired to walk into a parlor, where, in his night-gown and slippers, sat a personage, the exact counterpart of lord Ogleby, in the Clandestine Marriage. Rebecca started, and was going to retire. 'Pray, madam,' said my lord, rising, 'do not let rae frighten you; my lady will be here directly. Thomas, reach a chair for the young lady.' Rebecca blushed, courtcsied, and took her seat. My lord eyed her attentively. She felt her confusion increase. 'She is a very fine girl,' thought his lord- ship; 'I wonder who the devil she is!' 'The weather is very fine for the season, madam,' said he, thinking it was incumbent on him to say something, though, in fact, it had rained incessantly for a week. 'The sun did break out for about an hour this morning,' said our heroine, half smil- ing, 'but he seems to have withdrawn him- self again.' ' He was conscious, madam, that when your beauties were visible to the admiring eyes of mortals, his fainter glories could not be missed !' 18* 210 REBECCA. 'Heavens! 1 thought Rebecca, 'what a ri- diculous old man, with his bombastic compli- ment: however, I am glad he is old; per- haps his lady will want a person to read to her, or, by cheerful assiduily, otherwise amuse her.'' She had in her own mind, pic- lured lady Winterton as an elderly lady, perhaps, upwards of sixty years old. 'In this family,' thought she, 'should 1 be so happy as to be placed, 1 should be free from the noise and impertinence so frequently to be met with in the families of young people of quality. 1 dare say they do not keep much company; nay, perhaps, live in the country above half the year. 1 wish 1 may suit her ladyship; she certainly wants some- body, either for herself or some of her acquaintance, by her desiring me to wait to see her.' As Rebecca was indulging these reflec- tions the door opened and a lady entered, in appearance not more than twenty, habit- ed in a very modish undress. 'Miss Littleton, 1 presume,' said she, ad- vancing. Rebecca courtesied. 'Colonel Abthorpe,' said the lady, mo- tioning for her to be again seated, ' has had a very disagreeable time in America. I dare say you are happy to find yourself in England again.' •Sincerely so, madam.' REBECCA. 211 'This,' thought Rebecca, 'is undoubtedly a daughter.' k The colonel mentions,' resumed the la- dy, 'that you would wish to engage as com- panion to an elderly lady, or as governess to some genteel family of children.' ' Either situation would suit me, madam,' said Rebecca; 'and if lady Winterton could recommend me ' ' Lady Winterton wants a companion her- self,' said the lady, smiling; 'but, perhaps, her age will be an objection.' 'By no means, madam; I should give the preference to an elderly lady.' The lady laughed; Rebecca blushed, and feared she had been guilty of some impro- priety. 'Why, my dear creature,"' said the lady, 'I am afraid that you and I shall never agree, though colonel Ablhorpe seemed to think you might prove an acquisition to me; but I am too young for you, so must posi- tively turn you over to my lord ; he is more adapted to your taste.' 'Your ladyship must pardon my igno- rance,' said the trembling, blushing Rebec- ca, 'I really had no idea ' 'Hear her! hear her! my dear lord; she had no idea that your senatorial wisdom could have for a wife such an inconsiderate rattle. 1 would bet a thousand pounds she took you for my papa.' 212 REBECCA. ' Your ladyship is pleased to display your xv t .it the expense of good manners,' said his lordship. k Oh, 1 humbly crave your pardon,' cried she, wiih a most bewitching smile, 'I meant no offence; you know I cannot help other people's mistakes 5 for my own part Ilhink you infinitely charming;' then twisting one of his gray locks round her beautiful fin- gers, she continued, l the snow on the hills, and the icicles pendant from the leafless trees in December, are, in my eyes, as beau- tiful as the variegated fields and full blown hawthorn in May. 1 like every thing in its season, and am, moreover, a great admirer of natural curiosities.' ' Impertinent !' said his lordship, rising angrily, and quitting the room. 'Well, now he is gone,' said her lady-" ship, drawing her chair near Rebecca, 'let us have a little serious talk. You cannot suppose that inclination led me to give my hand to that ludicrous piece of antiquity; no, my dear girl, 1 married him to serve a father whom, next to heaven, 1 love; and to get from the power of an ill-natured maid- en aunt, who had kept me at school for fear 1 should mar her fortune, and despoil her of all her lovers; for she had a fortune of thirty thousand pounds, and that gave her wizened face and skeleton figure ten thou- sand charms; she or her fortune had admir- REBECCA. 213 ers innumerable. I was always with her at the holj'days. My lord saw me at the play. Charmed at the idea of getting me married out of the way, she made her will, bequeath- ing to me all her fortune in case she died without issue. 'This was buzzed about; her lovers all forsook her; and poor aunty died shortly of a broken heart, in the fifty-ninth year of her age! My father had married this lady's sis- ter. He was poor; she was the co-heiress of a large fortune; but alas! she knew not that if she married without her guardian's consent, the whole of her fortune went to her eldest sister. 'Disappointment and sorrow soon put a period to her existence. My father contin- ued in poverty, but 1 was committed to the care of my wealthy aunt. 'At the time 1 became acquainted with lord Wintcrton, my father's circumstances were dreadfully embarrassed. My auut would not advance a single guinea to keep him from jail. I knew this marriage would place him in affluence, and, at the age of sixteen, gave my hand, promised to love and obey, before my heart knew what love was. I have been married now five years; my temper is naturally cheerful, and 1 am an enemy to thought; but 1 have that with- in mc which convinces me I have a heart 2*4 REBECCA. alive to every delicate sensation of disinter- ested tenderness. S'Yoa may, perhaps, think it odd that ! am thus open to a stronger; but colonel Ab- thorpe, who was the intimate friend of my father, has given you a character which has made me wish to awaken an interest in your heart, that 1 may have one bosom in which to repose my sorrows, one friend who will pity my frailties.' Rebecca felt inclined to love this unfor- tunate young creature, from the first mo- ment she beheld her. A \cvy few words served to settle every preliminary, and it was agreed that the next day she should re- pair to her new situation. CHAPTER XIII. When Rebecca began to feel herself set- tled in Wimpole Street, she also began to find that she had entered into an entire new line of life. Lady Winterton was extreme- ly gay, saw a great deal of company, and lived in one continued round of dressing, vis- iting, and public amusements. It was in vain for our heroine to object to accompa- nying her; she had taken a peculiar fancy to her society, and was never happy with- out her. Lord Winterton loved gayeiy, and REBECCA. 215 an oslcntalious display of grandeur, as well as his lady. She was, therefore never con- tracted in her pleasures, were they ever so extravagant; and the old peer thought him- self amply repaid for the mostspendid enter- tainments or elegant presents, by the smiles and good humor of his lady, who, in spite of her caprice and satirical wit, he tenderly loved. One morning Rebecca had accompanied her friend to an auction, where the\ had scarcely been seated ten minutes before a very elegant young man approached them, and being introduced to her as JVJr Savage, a particular friend of her ladyship's, attach- ed himself to them the whole morning. Re- becca did not observe any thing uncommon in his attentions to lady Winterton, but she thought, as he handed her ladyship to her carriage, she saw him put a folded paper in- to her hand, which she immediately con- veyed to her pocket. As it drew towards evening, the lady seemed vastly uneasy, especially when she found her lord meant to spend his evening at home: however, after she had taken her tea, she v ordered her chariot. ' Am I not to have the pleasure of your company, Fanny ?' said his lords!) ip. ' I pro- posed supping at home, because 1 heard you were disengaged.' 'Oh, my lord, I shall be at home again in 216 REBECCA. about two hours. Miss Littleton and I arc only going to call on a sick friend of hers. T Rebecca started. Lady Winterton gave her a supplicating look, and surprised as she was, she remained silent. 1 If Miss Littleton has a wish to visit her friends,' said his lordship, 'the chariot is certainly at her service; but surely, my dear Fanny, you are not obliged to accompany her.' ' Indeed, but I am ; and I am sensible the lady will take it very unkind were 1'to neg- lect going. Don'iyou think she would, Re- becca V ' 1 think,' said Rebecca, timidly, ' we may both venture to defer our visit till the morn- ing, as my lord is so kind as to spend the evening at home.' ' Ah ! that is your good nature, my dear •, you would rather offend your friend than lead me to disoblige my husband. But sup- pose we settle it in this way; 1 will go and see how the lady is, and you shall stay and engage my lord at piquet. I shall just call at the mantua-maker\s in my way home, and be with you again before supper.' 'Your ladyship will pardon me,' said Re- becca, giving her a penetrating look. 'As you are resolved to go, you shall not have to say I am remiss in duty to my friend. — I am ready to attend you, madam,' rising, and ringing for her cloak. REBECCA. 217 4 For heaven's sake ! lady Winterton,' said Rebecca, as the chariot drove from the door, ' what is the meaning of all this ? You have distressed me beyond measure, by calling on me to assert a falsehood.' 'Now you are angry with me, Rebecca,' said the lady, taking her hand; 'but pray think no more about it. I could contrive no other method to get away from that inquis- itive old man without telling him where I was going.' 'And surely your ladyship does not wish to go any where, that would be offensive to your husband.' 'Oh ! my dear girl, you will never forgive me, you are such a prudent creature your- self; but 1 am going to meet , though, believe me, it shall be the last time. I am going to meet — and take a last farewell of Savage.' 'By your ladyship's promising it shall be the last time, I am led to think it is not the firsl. I could have excused your making me accessary to such an affair; however, I shall take care not to be liable to be drawn in a second time.' ' Ah S Miss Littleton, you have no compas- sion for a susceptible heart.' 'Yes, lady Winterton, I have an infinite deal; I feel for you sincerely if, when your person is united to one, your heart is in the possession of another. Your feelings, mad- 19 218 REBECCA. am, are involuntary ; your actions are by no means so. I am sensible you may not be able to conquer the weakness of your heart; but you certainly may avoid throw- ing yourself into situations which may lead to criminality.' The chariot now stopped ; lady Winter- ton alighted; and Rebecca followed her si- lently into a parlor where Savage was eager- ly expecting her. The ensuing scene, to which our heroine was a witness, though it awakened all her compassion for the lovers, who in years, sentiments, and manners, seemed so suitable to each other, it gave her but an indifferent opinion of her lady's prudence. Savage, from his conversation, appeared a man of strict honor; he did not seem to entertain an idea to the injury of his mistress; but that unfortunate woman, hurried on by the violence of her passion, made a thousand discoveries of her unbounded affection for him, which, with a man of less integrity, might have precipitated her into everlasting infamy. The promise of returning to supper was quite forgotten. Rebecca reminded her of the hour; she heard her not, and the clock struck twelve before she could bring herself to leave her lover. During their ride home Rebecca spoke not a syllable, except one or two laconic REBECCA. 219 answers to her lady's questions. She fol- lowed her into the hall, and taking a candle from a servant, wished her a good night, and ran "hastily up stairs, leaving lady VVin- lerton to make her excuses to her husband for her breach of promise. The next morning as she was rising, one of the maids brought her the following note : 'For heaven's sake! my dear Rebecca, do not contradict whatever you hear said at breakfast, as you value the peace of F. WINTERTON.' Rebecca threw the note into the fire, and went down stairs. Her lord and lady were already in the parlor. ' And how do you find yourself this morn- ing, my dear?' said her ladyship. 'I vow you quite frightened me last night.' 'Are you often taken in such a strange manner? 1 said his lordship, with a look of concern. 'No, indeed, my lord; I was taken quite by surprise last night, and was very pain- fully affected. 1 never was taken that way before, but I felt a return of the disorder this morning.' ' Indeed !' cried her ladyship, in appear- ance much alarmed. ' Yes, madam ; but as a change of air may be of service to me, and your ladyship ap- pears so terrified on my account, 1 shall beg 220 REBECCA. leave to retire to a friend's some few miles from town. 1 shall go directly after break- fast, and will send tomorrow for my trunks.' ' You do not mean to leave us 1 hope.' ' Yes, madam ; it is impossible for me to remain longer with you.' Lady Winterlon burst into texrs. ' Nay, Miss Littleton,' said his lordship, ' you must not leave us ; my poor Fanny will break her heart.' All to no purpose was it for the lady to weep or her husband entreat; Rebecca re- mained inexorable, till lord Winterton leav- ing them, his lady earnestly entreated her to forgive what was past, and she would nev- er see Savage again. 'Do not leave me, Rebecca,' said she, 'you are my guardian angel; without you I shall be inevitably lost!' This argument prevailed, and Rebecca consented to stay, in hopes of drawing her lady from her unfortunate attachment. The winter was now entirely supplanted by the gay-robed spring, and our heroine began to sigh for reiirement, silver streams, and shady groves. Lady Winterton, to oblige her, pro- posed spending a few weeks at Chcswick, where they had an elegant seat. It was a charming evening in the begin- ning of June; the ruddy streaks of the part- ing sunbeams had given place to a sober gray; the moon with silver crescent shed a REBECCA. 221 feeble light, and stars, by imperceptible de- grees, appeared in ihe blue expanse ui hea- ven till all was one continued scene of radi- ant glory. A nightingale, perched on a thorn, was tuning her melancholy pipe, and the zephyrs passed gently over a long canal, wafting on their wings the distant sound of the tinkling sheep-bell, and the rustic shep- herd's whistle. Rebecca had left her lady in an alcove at the bottom of the garden, and wandered in- to the pleasure ground. The beauty of the surrounding scene had given a soft serenity to her mind, and she sat down to indulge re- flections which, if not absolutely pleasant, were far from painful. She had not sat long before she saw two men gliding among the trees, and proceed- ing towards the garden. At first she felt rather terrified, but the idea of Savage strik- ing her, she hastened towards the place where she had left her lady. She had hard- ly got half way before she felt herself seized by a person, who softly bid her not to be alarmed, he only meant to prevent her dis- turbing an agreeable tete-a-tete, to which a friend "of his had been invited, and which he was determined should not be interrupted by her. Rebecca trembled excessively ; for, by the voice, and what she could discern of his 19* 222 REBECCA. features, she discovered the person who held her to be no other than lord Ossiter. 'Whoever your friend is,' said she, 'he can have no business here. Unhand me. sir, or 1 will alarm the house.' ' You must cry pretty loud then, my dear, for you are a good distance from it; but stay, have 1 not seen your face before ? Yes, avens r by he At that moment a loud shriek from the alcove, and a clashing of swords, made him relinquish his hold, and run towards the place whence the sound proceeded. Rebec- ca followed as fast as her trembling limbs would permit; but what a scene presented itself to her view ! Savage on his knees, sup- porting the bleeding and apparently lifeless body of lady Winterton, and Ossiter strug- gling to wrest the sword from her lord, who, foaming with rage, threatened instant death to the betrayer of his honor. 'Infamous wretch!' said the enraged hus- band, when he beheld our heroine, 'this is your doings, you contrived and winked at their meetings, and most conveniently left your vile friend to entertain her lover while you whiled away your time with that dis- grace to nobility! Begone; leave my house this night, thou pest to society! I have long been informed of your scandalous proceed- ings, but would not believe till ocular dem- onstration left me nothing to doubt." REBECCA. 223 Terrified and distressed as Rebecca was, she could not but wish to stay to afford what relief was in her power to her lady, but this was denied her. She had assisted Savage to bathe her temples with hartshorn, and saw her open her eyes, when the servants entered, took her in their arms, and bore her to the house, where Rebecca was for- bade to enter, and any servant who should dare to afford her shelter, threatened with instant dismission. ' What now is to become of me V said she, sinking on the ground as the door was shut against her; 'what next will be the fate of the wretched Rebecca ?' ' Love, affluence, and pleasure,' said lord Ossiter, endeavoring to raise her. 'Say rather death and infamy, my lord ; my reputation is wounded, my peace of mind destroyed. Oh, that my heart would break, and let me rest forever!' 'Rest in my arms,' said he, rudely em- bracing her. She shrieked. 'Forbear, my lord,' said Savage, advan- cing, 'this lady has been the friend of my adored, Fanny, and no one shall insult her with impunity.' 'Your humble servant,' cried Ossiter, ' I understand you, and have done; only give me leave to inform you, that this prettj' im- maculate piece of prudery, about four years since, was in a ready furnished house of my 224 REBECCA. providing, whence she thought fit to elope, and has, J make no doubt, seen a great deal of life since that period. 1 Rebecca could hear no more ; a sudden chilliness ran through her veins; she re- spired with difficulty ; her head grew giddy ; and she sunk into insensibility. When she recovered, recollection retained but faint traces of the past scenes; it seemed like a disturbed dream. 'Where am I T said she. Lord Ossiter approached the bed-side. ' You are in safety, my angel,' said he, 'only com- pose your«pirils, and nothing shall be omit- ted that can make you happy.' She turned her head from him, wept, but could not an- swer. 'You must not disturb her,' said a medi- cal gentleman who had been called in ; ' qui- et and rest are absolutely necessary to pre- serve her life.' ' Exert your utmost skill, doctor,' said Os- siter, ' to save her, and we will be guided en- tirely by your directions/ 'Then leave her to the care of the nurse tonight, and do not attempt to see her before noon tomorrow.' Lord Ossiter kissed her hand, bowed, and retired. Rebecca heard the door shut ; she raised her head to observe the doctor, and per- ceived, to her great joy, he was a grave, de- cent looking man. She made some excuse REBECCA. 225 to send the nurse out of the room, then tak- ing both the doctor's hands in hers, cried, 'Oh! good sir, if you have any compassion in your nalure, show it now to a poor dis- tressed orphan, and save her. 1 'My dear child,' said he, ' do not alarm yourself; you are not in any immediate danger.' 'Oh! sir, you mistake me; it is not death I fear, it is dishonor. Alas! I know not where I am ; but I fear entirely in the pow- er of a - man who will sacrifice me to his un- hallowed passion.' ' Then you did not come with nim volun- tarily?' 'No! no', heaven knows I did not; 1 was in a state of insensibility.' An interesting conversation now ensued; the doctor was convinced of Rebecca's in- nocence, and bribing the nurse to assist, about twelve o'clock they helped the poor sufferer to put on her clothes, supported her down stairs, and carried her in triumph to his own house. Though lady Winlcrton had solemnly as- sured Rebecca she would hold no further correspondence with Savage, her love over- powered every good resolution, and she had seen him several times previous to their leav- ing London; fur what man of gallantry can refuse the request of the woman he tenderly loves, though rigid honor bids him fly her 226 REBECCA. society ! Fanny, the unfortunate Fanny, en- treated another interview ; it was impossible to, avoid it, hut each one was to be the last. Lord Ossiter was by no means the bosom friend of Savage; but he had, by accident, become master of this secret, and was, there- fore, requested to accompany him to Chcs- wick, where he had enjoyed several inter- views with lady Winterton before the last fatal one. Lord Wintcrton's valet had observed his lady's evening walks, and made the impor- tant discovery that she had a lover. lie in- formed his lord ; from that moment her steps were watched. She was discovered in the alcove, Savage at her feet ; her cheek rested on his forehead, her band upon Ins shoulder, and tears were streaming from her eyes. 'Turn, villain, , said lord Winterton, ' and defend yourself,' Savage arose, and drew his sword ; the frantic lady threw her arms about him, and received her husband's sword in her own bosom. She fell; and Ossiter at that moment entering, prevented the death of her lover, who would certainly have fal- len a victim to the husband's rage, had not timely assistance arrived. The,, gentle, innocent Rebecca, was in* volved in her lady's crime; she was sup- posed accessary to the interviews, and for- bade to enter the house, when she fainted as was mentioned above. Ossiter represented REBECCA 227 her to Savage as a woman of very light char- acter; and he, unwilling to quit a place where he might hope to hear whether his Fanny still lived, suffered that designing no- bleman to carry her to the chaise which waited for them, and convey her to the near- est inn. Here he ordered her to be put to bed ; sent for a doctor, and having strongly recommended her to his care, retired, after a slight supper, to bed, rejoicing in an acci- dent which had again put in his power a wo- man whom, though he had given up all thoughts of gaining, he could never entirely forget. How great then was his surprise when in- quiring for her the next morning, he found doctor, nurse and patient, all absconded. — He repaired to the doctor's house, but could not obtain admittance. He cursed the med- dling fellow in his heart, vowed revenge on Rebecca, and set off for London. In the regular, cheerful family of Dr Ry- land our heroine soon recovered her health, and, in a great measure, her spirits. She made inquiry concerning the fate of her la- dy, and learned that, though she had recov- ered from her wound, she labored under a very ill state of health, which, they feared would terminate in a decline. Rebecca gave a sigh to her hard fate, wished she might conquer her passion, and be prepared 220 REBECCA. for thai peace in another world she had fail- ed of finding in this. Dr Ryland was a truly benevolent man, but he had a large family, and no great de- gree of practice, it was therefore not to be expected that our heroine could remain with them long, and in the poor situation she then was, without money or clothes, she could not think of returning to incumber Mrs Harris. She had informed Mrs Ry- land that she wished to get a place in some genteel family, where she could render her- self useful without much hard labor; that lady inquired among her friends, and learn- ed that the lady of a neighboring justice wanted a young person to get up her small linen, make her caps, bonnets, gowns, &c. and occasionally to take the care of the fam- ily when the lady was out. Rebecca joy- fully waited on Mrs Penure; the kind Mrs Ryland accompanied her, gave her such a character as she deserved, and had the pleasure to find she entirely suited the la- dy's plan. The salary was but small, but Rebecca had but few wants to supply; to be neat was now all she required, indeed it was all she could henceforth expect. The doctor advanced a few guineas to get her a change of clothes, for she had sent repeat- edly without effect for her trunk from lord Winterlon 1 s; and in the course of a week from the time she waited on the ladv, Re- REBECCA. 229 becca became an inmate in the family of the worshipful justice Penure. Jacob Penure had, from a very low sta- tion in a reputable tradesman's family raised himself, by indefatigable industry, to the confidence of his master, and a share in his business, at the age of twenty-three. The fair Miss Abigail Prune, who had, in the younger part of her life, served several la- dies in the quality of waiting-woman, but who now kept her brother's house, cast on him the eyes of affection. Miss Abigail was, to be sure, rather past her prime, hav- ing seen forty seasons revolve and noted their various change, without the least hope of ever changing her own maidenly condi- tion to the more honorable one of wife. Mr Jacob was a comely young man. She reviewed her own countenance in the glass; she could not perceive the traces made by the hand of time. She was above the mid- dle size, extremely thin, and had a shape, not 'small by degrees, and beautifully less;' but so exactly straight, that it was impossi- ble to perceive any difference between the bottomland the top; and instead of that ro- tundity, which constitutes elegance in the form of a woman, her waist was as perfect- ly flat as if she had been pressed between two boards, Her arms were long; her hands large, hard, and bony ; her face was round, but it was that kind of roundness that 20 230 REBECCA. expresses insignificance. The small remains of teeth she possessed might be termed beau- tiful in some parts of the world, for they were of a jetty hue; and from her hollow sockets, over which could be seen scarcely the trace of brows, twinkled two extremely small black eyes. The tip of her diminu- tive nose was elevated ; and her complexion might have rivaled the tints of the most beautiful orange lily. Such was the person of Miss Abigail. — We will leave her accomplishments and tem- per to speak for themselves. Mr Jacob Penure knew his own interest too well to think of slighting the maiden's advances. She had five hundred pounds in her own possession, the accumulated savings of nearly twenty years' servitude; besides, her brother had no children, and he had much money. Mr Prune was far from dis- pleased with his sister's choice. Penure was an attentive, industrious young man ; he made him equal partner with himself, and in about fifteen years they found themselves in possession of a very handsome fortune. At this time the old gentleman died. All his possessions devolved to his sister, and Pen- ure resolved, though much against his wife's opinion, to leave trade and retire into the country. Here he was chosen justice of the peace, and by his integrity and gentleness in the execution of his office, gained the love REBECCA. 231 of all who knew him. Ife was a humane, friendly character; but he stood in fear of his wife. The morning after Rebecca's arrival, the breakfast things removed (for she was to eat at their table) Mrs Penure desired our hero- ine to accompany her up stairs. 'I am mighty glad,' said the lady, sitting down by a large old fashioned case of draw- ers, and taking an enormous bunch of keys from her pocket, 1 1 am mighty glad to have met with a young person like you, who can make me up a few smart things. I love to be genteel, and wear as good things as my neighbors; but really it is so expensive to have any thing done at the milliner's, and if one gets any journey-women to come home, they always ask for as much again stuff as they want, and steal the half of it. Now 1 do hate to be cheated ; I don*! mind giving away a bit of riband or gauze that is left; but it provokes me to have it taken away in a sly manner.' During this harangue, she had pulled from her drawers an immense quantity of yellow washed gauze, old muslin, and thread lace, that bore the strongest marks of antiquity. She admired the cap our heroine had on, and wished to have one made like it. But among the medley of trumpery she had dis- played, Rebecca could not select any thing Jit for the purpose; besides, or heroine's 232 REBECCA. head, though neat and plain, still retained an air of fashion. Mrs Penurc's lank black hair was combed in the most exact manner over a roll, and drawn up as tight behind as possible. How then could the same cap suit them both ? However, an attempt must be made. The lady assured Rebecca that her lace, muslin, &c. were very valuable, and insisted on not only one, but several caps being produced from those materials; at the same time she opened a cabinet in which were arranged, rolled in the neatest manner round cards, every riband she had ever had in her possession. ' See, young woman," 1 said she, exultingly, 'here are va- riety of ribands; take your choice; let my caps be trimmed handsomely, but don't let any be wasted ; I hate waste, so, if you can avoid it, don't cut them.' Rebecca could not suppress a smile at the solemn manner in which this treasury of old fashioned, dirty > faded ribands, was committed to her charge. However, she promised to exert her abili- ties to please, and was beginning to form a cap, but her mistress had not yet clone with her. ' I suppose,' said she, 'you will want linings and wire; besides, you will not be all day making two or three caps. I want a bonnet or two made, and my best cloak fresh trimmed.' ' I am afraid 1 shall not be able to do all in one day, madam.' REBECCA. 233 ' Well, you* must do as much as you can, child; don't be idle, 1 hate idle people. I hope you don't love reading V Rebecca hesitated; she would not utter a falsehood. 'I think it an agreeable amuse- ment; but I will not neglect my business.' 'No, indeed, I hope not; reading is the ruination of all young people. I never read a book in my life but the Bible and the Housekeeper's Assistant. 1 was continual- ly studying to make the most of my time, and how to save or earn a penny.' A fresh cargo was now displayed to the wondering eyes of Rebecca, of old mode, white sarcenet, skeleton wires, and blond lace, out of which she was desired to pro- duce a smart bonnet or two. ' It is impossible, madam,' said she, ' utter- ly impossible; the bonnets worn now are so different from what were worn ten years since. You must, indeed, madam, afford yourself new materials to make a genteel bonnet.' Her aguments were vain; all she could obtain was a yard of mode, and four yards of riband, while Mrs Penure declared she was leading her to extravagance, and that the bonnet must last her seven years. It is impossible to give a correct idea of our heroine's sensations, when this misera- ble woman, out of ostentation, displayed to her the treasures of her wardrobe. Here were gowns, petticoats, nay, even stockings 20* 234 REBECCA. and linen that she could no longer mend op wear, carefully laid by ! Her narrow soul could not even expand itself, to give to oth- ers what she could no longer use herself.— The very wire that came out of old caps, was twisted up, and kept in a box devoted to that purpose; hats that bore the date of' twenty years by their fashion; old stays, shoes and gloves, all were preserved, though scarcely worth acceptance by the poorest person. Her housekeeping was of a piece with the rest; every thing was under lock and key; bread and small beer were the only things to which the servants had free access. Her table, it is true, was well supplied; but it was ostentation, not liberality, occasioned it. Her female visiters were seldom asked to take more than one glass of wine after din- ner; for when she had taken half a glass herself, she would return the stopper to the decanter and cry, 'I never allow myself more.' This was the signal, and the wine was immediately removed, when she would say, ' But, perhaps, ma'am, you would have liked another glass?' It could not be expected, in such a fam- ily, our heroine would be happy; she en- deavored to be content, but the effort was vain. Mr Penure saw she was far superior to the station she was in; he pitied her, but he could do no more without incurring the REBECCA. 235 anger of a woman whom he had been accus- tomed to obey, and dreaded to offend. It happened one afternoon, when his lady was gone to pay a visit of ceremony (a thing •not very customary with him) the justice took his tea at home. Rebecca was sum- moned to the parlor to make it; but, alas! Rebecca could produce only a tea-spoonful of black tea, and a very small quantity of sugar. ' Why, sure child, you are not allowanced iu tea and sugar?* said he, with a look of displeasure. ' There is a plenty for me, sir,' said she, affecting a smile, 'and — ' ' By heavens !' said he, stamping with pas- sion, 'you shall make no excuse for her; confound the stingy narrow-hearted — ' ' Hold, sir, I beseech you,' cried she, ' you quite terrify me!' ' I am sorry for it, child,' said he ; ' but to think that my wife should dare treat you thus, t/ou, who are every way her superior, and who, if I mistake not, was born to be served by others, not to be a servant your- self!\ ' You are mistaken, sir,' said our heroine, her eyes falling as she spoke, 'indeed, you are mistaken. I am a poor orphan, without friends or connexions, and have only to la- ment that my education has been superior to my fate. My birth was humble, and, I trust, 236 REBECCA. my heart is humble; but my feelings arc sometimes more than I can bear.' The justice rang the bell; he wished to hide his emotions. — 'Get me some tea and sugar,' said he, giving half a guinea to a ser- vant who entered. He then drew his chair toward our heroine, took one of her hands and told her, he felt inclined to prove him- self her friend, if she would direct him by what means to do it. ' Be not alarmed, my lovely girl,' said he, ' though my eyes acknowledge you beauti- ful, my heart only feels for you as for a sis- ter or a daughter. If j'ou can venture to make me your friend, confide in me, and trust to my honest intention ; 1 will serve you to the utmost of my power.' During tea Rebecca had disclosed to her master the chief incidents of her life, veiling only those which concerned sir George. — Time had passed unobserved. The justice had drawn forth his purse, and putting tpn guineas into the hand of Rebecca, entreated her to accept them as the gift of a father. — She strenuously opposed the liberal dona- tion. He had taken her hand, and closing it with the money within it, held it while he was speaking, when the door opened and Mrs Penure stood before them. The justice started, and dropped Rebecca's hand. The money fell to the floor. The rage of Mrs Penure inflamed her fea- REBECCA. 237 lures, and shot from her eyes ; she could not speak, but shrieking in a terrific man- ner, flew at Rebecca, and would have made her feel the weight of her tremendous hand, had not her husband stepped between them. She recovered her speech; then poured a volley of reproaches upon him. 'Profligate wretch!' said she, 'vile, un- generous villain! Is it thus my tenderness and condescension in making you my hus- band is repaid? Is my money to be squan- dered on your painted Jezebels, that you bring into my house to dishonor me? Oh! my unfortunate lot! Must I be beggared by an ungrateful wretch? Yes; I see all my property will be wasted, and I shall go to the workhouse.' Here her tears broke out, and, what with sobbing and screaming, she became unintelligible. Rebecca would not sloop to vindicate herself. She retired to her room in silence, and 6oon after received a message from her mistress lo leave the house, who, at the same time, made her ill behavior a plea for not paying her wages, though she had been in the family above four months. As she was going out at the gale to seek the London coach one of the servants put a folded paper into her hand. On opening it she saw not the ten guineas, but a ten pound note with these words: ' I know you have not been paid ; accept this as a small return for your services. — 230 REBECCA. God bless you, and make your happiness equal to your desert! J. PENURE.' Rebecca was grateful for this little sup- ply of cash, for she was almost entirely des- titute, and stepping into the stage, proceed- ed to London. CHAPTER XIV. The coach sat Rebecca down in Piccadil- ly ; it was quite dark. She thought it was best to go immediately to Mrs Harris's, and determined to take a coach for that purpose. As she stood waiting for her trunk to be taken from the boot, two genteel young men passed her, one of whom turning round, and regarding he r attentively, said, ' It is her, by heavens !' and" flew towards her. Rebecca turned suddenly round, and discovered the features of sir George Worthy. 'My angelic Rebecca!' said he, folding her in his arms, regardless of the place where they stood, ( do 1 once more behold you ? Do I, indeed, clasp you to my breast, or is it an illusion?' 'Sir George,' said she, struggling to free herself from his embrace, 'I rejoice to sec REBECCA, 239 you well; but know not what I have done to deserve this insult.' 'Who shall dare insult you, my adorable girl ! I have found you after such a long sep- aration, when 1 thought you lost forever, and we will never part again.' 'For heaven's sake let me go, sir George! Why am I thus detained? Are you not mar- ried V By this time a crowd had gathered round them. An old sailor seeing a woman in dis- tress, rushed forward, and struck sir George a blow that made him relinquish his hold. She sprang from him, and forgetful of her trunk, ran hastily down St James Street. — When she had reached the bottom she stop- ped to recover breath, and then proceeded slowly down Pali-Mall. A poor, miserable looking object, whose emaciated frame was but thinly sheltered by a tattered mode cloak (for gown she had none) from the nocturnal damps, supporting her feeble steps by holding by the iron rails before one of the houses, in a weak, tremu- lous voice entreated charity. Rebecca never turned aside from the sup- plications of misery. She stopped and put her hand in her pocket. They stood immediately under two large lamps. ' Merciful heaven !' cried the poor mendi cant, laying her cold hand on the one R x 240 REBECCA. becca had extended with relief, and gazing ardently at her, 'Rebecca! my child! do you not know me?' Our heroine looked intently on the pale visage of the object before her; misery and sickness had somewhat alterrd it, but she saw it was her mother. The feelings of a daughter rushed impetuously over her heart. She sunk on her kness upon the pavement, and clasping her parent in her arms exclaim- ed, 'Oh, my mother! my dear disiressed mother!' and bur&t into an agony of tears. When the tumult of their feelings was sub- sided, Rebecca thought of calling a coach, but where were they to drive! She could not think of taking her mother to Mrs Har- ris's; they, therefore, drove to a street in Westminster, where Mrs Serle had lodged, and were fortunate enough to find an apart- ment empty. Here their mutual embraces and endearments were again renewed. Re- becca wept for joy of having found a parent whose future life she would endeavor to ren- der happy, and Mrs Serle shed tears of con- trition for having once treated unworthily so good a daughter. She informed Rebecca that after they had left Lincolnshire, Serle commenced game- ster, sharper, and swindler; that her little boy died in infancy; that Serle's daughter hwent on the town, and became an abandon- 1 profligate; and that at last overwhelmed REBECCA. 241 with poverty and disgrace, Serle himself had died in the FlectPrison, leaving her neither clothes, money, or friends. Her annuity had been long since sold, and she must have perished, had she not providentially met with her daughter. When Rebecca viewed her mother's tat- tered garments, and thought of getting her more comfortable clothing, her own trunk recurred to her memory. ' 1 hope it is not lost,' said she, 'and it is lucky what little money 1 possess is in my pocket.' Her mother informed her that there was some decent apparel at a pawn-broker's in the neighborhood, and Rebecca, having re- ceived instructions how to proceed, went out in order to get it; but what was her aston- ishment, on opening the parcel when she had brought it home, to see a gown made of a piece of Indian chintz, which she remem- bered to have had in her trunk when it was sent into Lincolnshire, with a muslin apron and several other things which she equally knew to be her own. 'Gracious heaven !' said she, dropping the parcel from her hands, and fixing her eyes on her tnother. 'What is the matter, my dear?' said Mrs Serle; 'that was a gown given me by poor Serle; it had been bought for his first wife.' 'It was mine,' said Rebecca, in a firm voice: 'if he told you it was his. he told a. 31 242 REBECCA. falsehood; it was in the trunk 1 lost four years ago.' An explanation now took place, which convinced Mrs Serle what a villain she had chosen to succeed the worthy Mr Littleton ; but our heroine would not suffer her to make any painful retrospects, or to accuse herself, she poured the sweet balm of affectionate consolation into the bosom of her mother. She forgot her own sorrows, and seemed to have no wish but to render her parent the like forgetful of every past disagreeable oc- currence. The next morning she went to the house where the stage had stopped in Piccadilly, to inquire for her trunk. 'The old gentleman took it away with him, 1 said one of the waiters, 'and paid all expenses;' for Rebecca, in her fright the preceding night, had forgot to pay her fare to town. ' What old gentleman V said she, surprised. 'Why, the old gentleman who knocked the young man down that was so rude to you. He read the directions on the trunk when it was taken from the boot, swore he was your uncle, and insisted on having it. — As he offered to pay all expenses the coach- man did not refuse, and both he and the young man went off together to search fur you, but returned in about an hour, and left word if you should call this morning, for mf REBECCA. 24-3 to lull you, you might hear of your trunk at No. 46 Bedford-Squarr.' 'That is lord Gssiler's,' said she, scarcely able to respire. ' And moreover,' said the man, ' the young gentleman told me, if 1 could find where you was gone, or could bring him to a sight of you, he would give me ten guineas, and so, seeing as how you are here, we hud better take a coach and go together.' 'No, 1 said she, struggling to suppress her emotions, 'no, I cannot go just now; in the afternoon it will be more convenient. I will just step back to my lodgings, and return to you again by two o'clock." The man was satisfied. Rebecca tripped hastily out of the house, called a coach, and drove home. During her little ride, her mind dwelt on the singularity of the circum- stance. She had just heard that the man, who rescued her from sir George's insults, had gone away with him, had taken her trunk, and directed her to find it at lord Os- siter's. It was an inexplicable riddle ; he had called himself her uncle, but she knew she had but one uncle, and he was abroad in the navy. She was certainly fortunate in escaping a snare, which she had no doubt was intended to trepan her. Lord Ossiter had, perhaps, represented her to sir George as an abandoned creature, devoid of virtue or principle; and that gentleman, once so 244 REBECCA. esteemed, so respected, was now considered as one who, believing her lost to honor, would join his lordship in any stratagem to decoy her into his power. Full of these ideas, she told her mother she would immediately remove from the apartments she then occupied, fearing she might have been watched home, and sir George would be directed where to find her. 'Alas! my dear mother,' said she, 1 1 am sensible of my own weakness. 1 hope I love virtue as well as women ought; but 1 know I love sir George, and though he is the hus- band of another; though reason, religion, honor, all plead against my passion, still, still it is so engraven on my heart, that, to eradicate it, 1 feel it totally impossible. Can I then answer for my own fortitude? I fear not. I might sink under powerful tempta- tions ; let me then fulfil my duty and avoid them.' Her mother approved and strengthened these resolutions; and, having but few things to put together, in less than two hours they were in new lodgings near Mill bank, West- minster. Here Rebecca sunk under fatigue of body, and agitation of mind she had un- dergone, and a fever ensued, which brought her almost to the grave. The strength of a good constitution at length combalted the vi- olence of the disorder, and she began to re- cover her strength, when her. mother was REBECCA -245 attacked with one more alarming; this was the small-pox, which, to a person of her age, was expected to be fatal. Ten pounds was all the worldly wealth Rebecca possessed when she met hej" moth- er; but ten pounds in a house of sickness would last but a short time ; she, therefore, on examining the contents of her purse when her mother sickened, found it contained but fifteen shillings, and there was a doctor's bill to pay. It was also necessary his atten- dance should be continued to Mrs Serle, her life being in imminent danger. During the first ten days of her mother's illness, Rebec- ca hardly left her side, denying herself al- most the necessaries of life in order to make the most of her little store; but on the four- teenth day she was pronounced out of dan- ger, and that good nursing and nourishing food was all that was necessary to her res- toration. ' Alas !' said Rebecca, ' I have no possible means of procuring those necessary com- forts.' She was stooping as she spokr\ to take some gruel from the fire, the pin of her handkerchief dropped out and the picture of lady* Mary swung forward against her hand. Rebecca gazed at it mournfully. ' True,' said she, 'it is set in gold, and might afford a temporary supply; but, then is it not the portrait of my adored benefactress? And does it not also contain the semblance of the 21* 246 REBECCA. only man 1 ever did or ever can love ? But. alas! what right have 1 to talk of love ? Is he not already married? And were he not, have I not given a solemn vow never to listen to his addresses? Foolish, foolish Re- becca ! why dost thou nourish a passion that must be forever hopeless!' She was returning the picture to her bo- som, when it struck her that she might, per- haps, get the miniatures carefully taken out, and dispose of the gold in which they were set. ' If so,' said she, ' I may comfort my mother, and yet preserve the respect due tu the portrait of lady Mary.' Rebecca was so pleased with the project of raising a supply of money from the gold, that she told her mother she would go out for half an hour and breathe the fresh air, as she found the confinement she had suffer- ed rather impeded her returning strength. When she was out she thought, by extending her walk, she should feel herself refreshed ; she therefore crossed the Park, and going out at Spring-Garden gate, stopped at an em- inent goldsmith's in Cockspur Street, and requested him to take the pictures carefully out and purchase the setting. The man had just taken it in his hand, and was admiring the neatness of the workmanship, and the curious contrivance of the spring, when a 'chariot stopped at the door, and a beautiful ,young lady immediately entered. The mas- REBECCA. 247 icr of the shop held the picture open in his hand, while he received the lady's orders concerning a pair of bracelets. The por- trait caught her eye: 'Bless me,' said she, 'pray whose is it? It is so like a person whom 1 know.' ' It belongs to this young woman, madam ; she wishes to sell the gold without the pic- tures.' The lady had not before observed Re- becca ; but now her pale, but beautiful, in- teresting countenance struck her. 'It is a pity to have them unset,' said she, ' will you part with it altogether? 1 will give you twice the value of the gold.' 'J cannot, indeed, part with the portraits, madam ; one is a much valued friend, long since dead, and the other——' A pale ver- milion crossed her cheek, and she hesitated. ' Aye, that other,' said the lady ; ' 1 never saw any thing more like than that is to a particular friend of mine; and even the fea- tures of the lady seem familiar to me.' ' Will you buy the gold, sir ?' said Rebecca. ' No,' cried the lady, ' he shall not buy it. If you will not part with it altogether to me for twice its value, I am certain, (pardon the remark,) but one motive could lead you to wish to dispose of the setting.' As she was speaking, she had taken several guineas out of her purse, and wrapped them in paper. — k You shall call upon me, if you please, to- 248 REBECCA morrow morning,' continued she, presenting our heroine a card, under which she slipped into her hand the paper with the money, and, without waiting for an answer, she trip- 5>ed out of the shop. Rebecca was motion- ess; nor did she think of looking at the card, till the master of the shop returned from seeing the lady to her carriage. '1 am glad you were so lucky,' said he, 'as to excite the notice of that lady; she is an amiable woman, and may prove a valu- able friend.' 'Lady Cbatterton,' said Rebecca, read- ing the card. 'Yes,' continued he, 'she was lady Elea- nor Harcourt, only daughter of the late earl. She has been married about three years. A most extraordinary circumstance happened about that time ; she had been from a child designed for her cousin sir George ' Just then a carriage drew up, several la- dies of fashion demanded the jeweller's at- tention, and Rebecca, thinking her mother might want her attendance, left the shop — not without wishing she could have heard what sir George the lady was designed for, as that was a name she never heard men- tioned, but she felt interested, and found it impossible to suppress the emotions of her heart. Rebecca was truly grateful for the unex- pected bounty she had received, and return- REBECCA. 249 ed home fully resolved to wait on the benev- olent lad}-, and return her those thanks her astonishment prevented her expressing at the time : but on the morrow her mother was so ill it was impossible to leave her, and for several succeeding da} r s it rained continually: however, at length a fine mor- ning presented, Mrs Scrle was greatly recov- ered, and Rebecca, dressing herself as neat- ly as the very limited state of her wardrobe would allow, proceeded to St Alban Street. On knocking at the door, she was inform- ed that lady Chatterton was gone out for a morning ride ; but that, if she was the young woman her ladyship had met at the jewel- ler's, she was desired to wait till the lady returned. Rebecca was pleased with this little mark of attention, and was shown into a small par- lor, where a child of about eleven years old, was practising the piano-forte. The child stopped on her entrance, and, starting from her seat, advanced a few steps towards Rebecca. 'Do not let me interrupt you, Miss," 5 said our heroine. ' Oh ! but I am sure I cannot play, ma'am,' said the child: 'indeed I cannot; I had much rather look at you. And pray ma'am do not think me rude if 1 ask you if your name is not Rebecca Littleton.' 250 REBECCA. 'That is my name,' said the astonished Rebecca. ' I knew, I was sure, it could be no other,' saiJ i he child, throwing her arms round our heroine's neck; ' buuyou have forgot me — you do not remember your Lucy Ossitcr.' 'Miss Ossiter!' 'Yes, your own little girl that loved you so dearly, and almost broke her poor heart when you went away: but you shall not go away again, Rebecca; my dear aunt will not let you go: I know she will not.' ' What aunt, my dear?' ' Why, aunt Eleanor: I live with aunt El- eanor now. Papa and mamma arc gone to France, and brothers are at school; so uncle George — Oh! dear, Rebecca, 1 have got so much to tell you about uncle George. 1 am sure aunt will be very glad to see yon ; un- cle and she are gone out together.' 'Good heaven!' thought Rebecca, 'then I am in the very house I most wish to avoid. No wonder her ladyship said she 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 strike me before, succeeded to his uncle's title on his marriage with his cousin. Honor, grat- itude, all unite to urge me immediately to quit this place. Lady Chatterton has ex- tended towards me the hand of benevolence ; nor will I repay her by throwing myself in REBECCA. 251 the way of bcr husband, who, from his be- havior when we met accidentally, has con- vinced me he still entertains an improper regard for me.' ' As my lady is not at home, my dear Miss Ossiter,' said she, ' I will call another time.' 'Well, then, let it be soon my own Rebec- ca^ say you will come again tomorrow.' Rebecca tenderly embraced the affection- ate child, and having given her a kind of half promise to see her soon again, hastily left the house. ' Every thing, 1 said she, ' conspires against me. I never find friends but some cross ac- cident prevents my reaping any benefit from their kindness: misfortune seems to be the only portion allotted for me in this world, and patience and resignation my only com- forters. But 1 will not complain: I have been unexpectedly relieved when almost in despair, when every earthly friend had ap- parently forsaken me; and, I trust, I shall be supported by the same beneficent Power, as long as he thinks proper to lay the bur- then of life upon me.' As she walked along, indulging these rc- flectiona, it struck her that she would go to her uncle's agent, and inquire when he had heard from him, and whether the old gentle- man was soon expected in England. But when she got to the place where he used to reside, she found he was removed to a dis- 252 REBECCA. tant part of the town; nor could the people who then occupied the house, give her a proper direction to find him. 'Now every stay is gone,' said Rebecca, as she pursued her way homeward; ' but I thank God, I feel my health returning, and I shall be enabled to obtain, by industry at least, the necessaries of life for my mother and self.' CHAPTER XV. When sir George Worthy left England, in order, if possible, to banish from his remem- brance Rebecca Littleton, he had, previous to his departure, visited his cousin Eleanor, and informed her of the state of his heart. 'I esteem you, Eleanor,' said he; 'but I do not love you as a man ought to love the woman he takes for his wife. To be can- did, my heart is in possession of another.' 'And to be equally candid, dear George,' replied the lady, 'mine is exactly in the same predicament; yet I do not know how we shall avoid making each other wretched, for my father positively swears I shall have you or be a beggar, and my poor swain has neither name or fortune to recommend him.' 'I mean to be absent two years,' said sir George, ' that will give you a short reprieve. REBECCA. 253 l will write to you often, and if at any time I can be of service to the man of your choice, do not hesitate to command me.' In the earl of Chatterton's family was a young man, nearly of the same age with El- eanor: he was a foundling, and had been brought up and educated by his lordship in the style of a gentleman, and, when at a proper age, presented with a commission. Oakly, which was the name the earl had given him, from having found him one mor- ning at the foot of an oak in his park, wrap- ped in a mantle, but without any othercloth- ing. Oakly was a youth of strict honor, and his heart overflowed with gratitude to his benefactor, whom he considered in the light of a father; but, in spite of honor, gratitude, and innumerable resolutions to the contrary, he loved lady Eleanor, somehow or other acquainted her with his passion, and found himself beloved in return. Things were in this situation when sir George left England, and in this situation remained when a letter from Eleanor sum- moned him to return, when he had been ab- sent abqut eighteen months. The earl was ill, felt himself daily declining, and wished to see his daughter married before he died. He obeyed the summons in haste. Oakly was almost distracted. 'But what am If said he, 'that I should aspire to the hand of my patron's daughter? — an outcast, 32 254 REBECCA. a foundling, without family or name, depen- dant on his bounty even for the bread I eat. No; I will not impede her union with a man every way her equal, who possesses honor, and goodness of heart, and will do justice to her virtues. 1 will leave England.' Unable to deliberate on a subject where inclination and reason were so much at vari- ance, he flew to the earl, and solicited an ex- change into a regiment destined to America ; 1 Let me gather laurels in the field of battle, my dear sir,' said he. The eari loved him tenderly. He pressed to know the cause of this unexpected appli- cation, and refused to exert his interest in Oakly's behalf until he was informed. 1 1 love a woman of family and fortune,' said he. ' 1 have some reason to think I am not indifferent to her, and, knowing my un- fortunate situation, 1 wish to avoid doing a dishonorable action.' 1 You will never act dishonorably, Oakly,' said the earl, ' and this conduct is a proof of it. Who is the lady? — inform me — 1 will speak to her friends in your favor, and give you a genteel fortune.' ; Oh ! my generous benefactor,' cried Oak- ly, ' indeed it is impossible ; her parents nev- er will consent. 1 dare not name her.' 'Come, come, you are too diffident: I am sure there is no family, of the least discern- ment, but would think themselves highly REBECCA. 255 honored by the alliance. Come, who is the paragon V 'You must pardon me, sir; I should en- tirely forfeit your friendship. 1 'You will undoubtedly forfeit it by this unkind reserve. I am willing and able to serve you, Oakly ; but if, by your obstinacy, you put it out of my power ' 'Do not call it obstinacy.' '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 cost half I am possessed of.' 'Ah! sir, I fear, when you know , 'Know what?' cried the earl, impatiently. 'That I love lady Eleanor.' 'Love Eleanor !' cried he, emphatically; ' then your suit is indeed hopeless,' Oakly's heart sunk within him. '\ r ou are a noble boy, though, 1 said the earl, 'and from this moment I hold myself bound, by a sacred oath, never to suffer you to know the want of a friend. Eleanor has, from her childhood, been designed for her cousin George ; indeed, my late sister and myselfventered into a solemn engagement, that whichever outlived the other should see this union completed; that now is my task. If it is absolutely necessary to your peace to leave England, 1 will procure you the neces- sary exchange; but I wish, my dear Oakly. 256 REBECCA, you could conquer your passion and remain with us.' k That is not in my power, sir,' replied he ; 'to be employed in actual service is now the only wish I have to make.' The earl did not mention this conversation to either his daughter or sir George, and Oakly carefully avoided an interview with Eleanor until he was really appointed to a company of fool that was expected to go to New-York in the course of a few weeks. He then, having made the necessary prepara- tions for joining his regiment, took a tender leave of her, assuring her it was his hope to ensure her felicitj j , by banishing from her sight a person who had stepped between her and her duty, and who would rather die than have it said he had basely stolen the daugh- ter of the man to whom he owed every enjoy- ment, nay, almost life itself. 1 'Tis all in vain,' .said Eleanor, ' I can nev- er love sir George; nor do I think even the command of a father I love and rcverp can lead me to give him my hand.' However, the preparations for the intend- ed nuptials still proceeded. Sir George be- neld them with total indifference. Pie had used every endeavor to discover Rebecca; had traced her to her embarkation with Miss Abthorpe for America, and was told the ves- sel in which they went was lost and all on board perished. REBECCA. 257 1 Rebecca lost !' he remembered his moth- er's first wish to see lady Eleanor his wife. 'She is an amiable woman/ said he, 'and though 1 cannot love again with the enthusi- astic ardor 1 experienced for Rebecca, 1 will, if she voluntarily accepts my hand, exert myself to make her happy. She, like my- self, has experienced disappointment in her tenderest hopes; we can at least console each other, and make up in friendship what we want in love.' Oakly had taken leave of his friends at Windsor, and was on his way to Portsmouth. Sir George was in town with the lawyers, and the earl and lady Eleanor at breakfast in his library at Windsor, when a servant in- formed him that a clergyman requested to speak to them. — He was desired to walk up. ' 1 am come, my lord,' said he, seating him- self with considerable embarrassment, * from a poor woman in this place, who, it is ima- gined, is at the point of death. From some- thing she has imparted to me, I imagine it is absolutely necessary for your lordship to visit her, as she has a circumstance to relate which nearly concerns your family. She is likewise in distressed circumstances, and may, while she lives, which will not be long, require your benevolent assistance.' The earl never wanted to be twice told of an object of compassion. ' We will go directly,' said he. and, ring- 90* 258 REBECCA. ing the bell, ordered the carriage. Lady El- eanor and the clergyman accompanied him. At a small cottage on the extremity of a forest, the carriage stopped, and the clergy- man led the way into an inner apartment, where, on a bed, expressive of poverty in the extreme, lay a poor emaciated figure, in the last stage of a consumption. 'Here is the earl and his daughter, Mrs Watts,' said he. 'They are very good,' replied she, 'to come and see such a wretch as 1 am. Oh ! sir, oh ! my lady, you will never forgive me ; but I cannot die in peace till 1 have informed you that, through mine and my sister's wick- edness, you have nourished an impostor in your family, and that the real heir to the late sir George Worthy's estate is either totally lost, or may be a poor wanderer, destitute of bread.' The earl and Eleanor sat in mute astonish- ment, gazing at each other. The clergyman exhorted the penitent to proceed. ' My eldest sister,' said she, ' was employ- ed to wet-nurse her son, and was left at Twickenham with the child while her lady- ship made a short tour to Flanders. During her lady's absence my sister came to Wind- sor to me, bringing master with her. I at that time gave suck to a sweet little boy ex- actly of the same age, whose mother had died at my house but a month before. My sister REBECCA. 259 entreated me to take care of master Worthy for a day, while she went to town : I consent- ed, and was proud of my charge. In the af- ternoon (he was asleep in the cradle) I left a little girl to rock him, and stepped about half a mile to buy something for supper against my sister came home. I made what haste 1 could, but on my return, what was my terror to see the cradle empty, and my girl at play in the street! However, I did not make any noise, or alarm the neighborhood ; but inqui- ring of the girl who had been there, she said, only two gypsy women begging. It imme- diately occurred to me, that the gold bells and coral, together with the costly lace cap and jam the child had on, had been the in- citement to this theft. When my sister re- turned, she was almost distracted — her char- acter would be gone — she should never dare face her lady again ! That evening we could think of nothing in order to avert the storm we should expect on my lady's return, till the diabolical thought presented itself of substi- tuting my little nursling, whose features and complexion were nearly the same, in place of master Worthy, quieting our consciences with the idea that, as his mother was dead, and his father very poor, and talked of going abroad, it would be doing a deed of charity ; and that, if we should ever find the lost in- fant, we might then acknowledge the fraud. Accordingly my sister returned to Twicken- 260 REBECCA. ham with the child, the plan succeeded be- yond our expectations, for we feared the penetration of the servants, and 1 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 infamously palm- ed upon the family for the son of my sister, and who was, within a few days, to have been married to my daughter?' 'His father's name was George Littleton,' she replied faintly, 'and he was christened after him.' 'And have you never heard any thing of my poor cousin?' said Eleanor, tenderly. 'Never, madam; but should he ever be found, he has on his right arm, just below the shoulder, the mark of a mulberry.' 'Saddle my horses; send off all my ser- vants,' said the earl, starting up; 'he shall not go to that d d fighting place.' 'My dear father!' cried Eleanor. 'Rejoice, rejoice, my girl, for upon my soul the young dog had that mark on his arm when I found him sprawling under the oak.' ' And is he alive then ?' said the poor wom- an. 'Thank God! then I shall die content.' George Littleton, as we must now call him, however conscious of his innocence, felt greatly hurt at being so long the usurper of another's name and property, but the earl would not suffer him to dwell on the subject ; and on his marriage with lady Eleanor, sir REBECCA. 261 George presented his quondam rival with the writings of an estate, worth five hundred pounds a year, given to him and his heirs forever; and so fond were they of his soci- ety, that it was but a small part of every year lie spent from them. The earl did not long survive his daughter's marriage, and sir George succeeded to the title of earl of Chatterton, the earl having begged the reversion of it for him sometime previous to his death. Mr Littleton had given up all hopes of hearing of Rebecca. He imagined her dead ; but her image was so deeply engraven on his heart, that he resolved never to enter into the married state. Sometimes he would think she might, perhaps, have been his sis- ter, for he had never heard her father's christian name, but his heart recoiled from this suggestion. She was undoubtedly a re- lation, yet he had never heard her mention any uncle, but she might have many ; he had never made many inquiries concerning her family. One evening, when he was at a supper- party with lord Ossiier, that nobleman ad- dressed him with, 'George, 1 saw an old ac- quaintance of yours last night. Ah, now 1 think of it, she may be a relation.' 'Who do you mean, my lord?' '• Who ! why, who but that demure, primi- 262 REBECCA. tive pfece of affected innocence, Miss Rebec- ca Littleton. ' 'You must be mistaken, my lord; I have every reaadn to think she has been dead sev- eral years. 1 'And I have a substantial reason to think she was alive last night, and in my arms.' He then gave an account of the affair at lord Winterton's, little to the honor of our heroine. ' Poor girl,' said George, mentally, ' heavy must have been the trials that drove her to a life of infamy.' From that time he frequented every place where he thought it likely to meet with her. 'I will snatch her from perdition,' said he. 'She shall share my little portion, eat of my bread, and drink of my cup. 1 will speak consolation to a mind that was once as pure as angels, and cannot, without infinite pain, be intimate with vice.' About this time lord Ossiter's extrava- gance had so involved his estates, that it was necessary he should make a trip to the con- tinent in order to retrieve them. George undertook to settle all his debts, and put the estates under proper regulations, and for this purpose took up his residence in Bedford- Square. He had been dining out, where the champaign flew briskly round, when he accidentally met our heroine just descended from the stage. The wine gave him a great REBECCA. 263 flow of spirits, which, added to the relation he had heard from lord Ossiter, accounts for the rude manner in which he accosted her. The blow he received from the old sailor almost stunned him ; however, he followed him into the house, and insisted on satisfac- tion for the insult, as he termed it. The old man swore it was a blow given in a right cause, and that he was ready to give him a dozen more if he were not already satisfied. During this altercation the coachman en- tered with Rebecca's trunk, and asked where the young woman was to pay him his fare. 'She ran off,' said a man who saw the transaction. 'Well then,' says the coachman, 'I must keep the trunk for what she owes.' As he spoke he rested one end of it on a chair near a table on which stood a candle. The old sailor looked at the directions, rubbed his eyes and looked again. 'By all that's good,' said he, 'it is my own girl, my Rebecca! Which way did she go? Let me follow her. Stand out of my way.' ' Not until you have paid me,' said the coachman, surlily. The v old man threw down five shillings, and told a waiter to take care of the trunk, ran out, followed by George ; but, instead of turning into Pall-Mail, they went through the Palace into the Park, their search was therefore vain. 264 REBECCA. As they returned slowly together George asked the old man if he were any relation to Miss Littleton. 'Yes,' said he, 'I am all the relation she has in the world, and a devilish poor one too, for I have not above half a guinea at this present 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?' 1 So my mother told me; I suppose she knew.' ' Pardon me if I am troublesome ; but had you ever a son?' 'Yes; but he died an infant.' 'You were informed he died at Windsor?' The old man answered in the affirmative. ' Ah ! my dear sir,' said George, ' you were deceived; your son still lives; longs eager- ly to embrace you, and divide with you the competence he enjoys.' By this time they had returned to the pub- lic house. George called for a room, knelt before his father, and related to him f all the reader is already acquainted with. What wonder if, in the delightful hurry of spirits this discovery occasioned, they did not think of the necessity of writing a note for Rebec- ca in case she came to inquire for her trunk ; but, satisfied with leaving a verbal message, they repaired to Bedford-Square to enjoy an uninterrupted conversation. REBECCA 265 The next morning Rebecca, so dear to both their hearts, recurred to their imagina- tions. George beheld her in want, plunged in infamy, the horrors of which her suscep- tible heart severely felt, and from which she could by no means extricate herself. ' She may be in want,' said his father, ' but I'll bed d if she is infamous. I know the dear girl, George, and I'd stake my life upon her innocence. He then gave his son an account of the manner in which he found her in America, of the respect and esteem she created wherever she was known, and how much she was beloved by colonel Ab- thorpe's family. But let us go to the house where the coach stopped,' continued he, 'she will most likely call there to get her trunk.' They went out together, and entered the house just ten minutes after she had left it. Disappointed and grieved, unable by any means to trace which way she had gone, and fearing she would be distressed for the loss of her trunk, which might contain all her worldly possessions, they returned heavily home, and resolved to advertise it. This they immediately did in several papers, in such a manner as it was impossible for Re- becca not to know it was herself that was meant, though only the initials of the name were used ; but Rebecca never saw the pa- 23 26G REBECCA. pers, and the repeated advertisements were fruitless. George had introduced li is father to lord and lady Chatterton; but though Rebecca had been once or twice mentioned before that lady, he had always avoided entering into explanations, and lady Chatterton did not know that she was the woman George had so long loved ; for though, in the early part of their intimacy, he had frequenty de- clared that his heart was engaged, he had never said to whom, or whether she was above or beneath him in rank; but simply said, he had no hope of being united to her. On the day lady Chatterton had met her at the jeweller's, she mentioned the circum- stance at dinner time. George and his fa- ther that day dined with them. 'I wanted to buy it of her,' said she, ' for one of the pictures was so like George Littleton, and the other was a lady whom I did not know, though I have seen the features before.' 'Good heavens !' said George, 'J am cer- tain it could only be Rebecca herself.' ' I wish it may,' said the lady ; ' but I did not think of it at the time ; however, I have appointed her to come here tomorrow.' ' How did the poor girl look ?' said old Mr Littleton. '•Very pale,' replied she, 'and, 1 fear, is in distress, from her agitation, and her visi- ble reluctance to part with the pictures.' REBECCA. 2G7 ' Oh ! ray poor, lost Rebecca,' said George, and rising hastily from the table, left the room to give vent to those emotions be could no longer suppress. Rebecca, in distress, offering, with evident reluctance, the gold that enveloped his por- trait for sale, convinced him he still retained a tender place in her remembrance. Once to have been beloved by her would have been his highest wish ; now she was contam- inated, lost to virtue! and though still inex- pressibly dear to his heart, she could never be his wife. Yet she might be innocent; — lord Ossitcr was not a man of the strictest veracity; he would have given worlds for an interview with her; and, unable to wait the issue of the morning, when she was ex- pected in St Alban-Strcet, he obtained of lady Chatterton a direction to the jeweller, who, however, could give him no informa- tion. Those only who have felt the pnngs of suspense, can imagine the anxiety of Mr Lit- tleton and George during the night. The next morning they repaired early to St Al- ban-Street, but the day passed and no Re- becca appeared. Another and another mor- ning came, and still brought with them dis- appointment. 'She will never come,' said George; 'the poor girl is conscious of her unhappy situa- tion, and shame prevents her taking advan- 268 REBECCA. tage of lady Chatterton's offers of service/ Mr Littleton began to be of the same opin- ion ; but the benevolent lady Chattcrtnn nev- er went out without leaving orders with her porter, that, should Rebecca call she might be desired to wait till her return. ' I will my- self,' said she, ' have the pleasure of presen- ting her to her uncle. She shall not be has- tily informed that he is in England, lest it should overpower her spirits ; and, if J find her worthy, I will give her to her amiable cousin, and make her a fortune worth his acceptance.' But unfortunately Miss Ossiter's joy, the effusions of which were mingled with inco- herent intelligence concerning her uncle's marriage, prevented poor Rebecca's bene- fitting by her ladyship's kind intentions in her behalf. George Littleton had accompanied lord and lady Chatterton in their morning ride. They returned together. Miss Ossiter came running to them as they entered the parlor. 'Oh! dear aunt, who do you think has been here; the greatest stranger! I do not think you know her; but 1 told her I was sure you would be glad to see her.' ' Why, who was it, my love?' said her la- dyship, seating herself. 'Why, it was my own Rebecca Littleton! 1 knew her in a minute, though she is so pale and thin/ REBECCA. 269 1 And where is she?' said George. 'She could not wait any longer,' replied the child; k but said she would call again tomorrow.' 1 Was ever any thing so unfortunate,' said lady Chatterton. George bit his lips, took hasty strides back and forward in the room, frequently struck his forehead with his hand, but spoke not. In the afternoon the following letter was brought to lady Chatterton. ■ MADAM Agreeable to your ladyship's benevolent desire, I this morning waited on you in St Alban-Street, an honor which the extreme illness of my mother had prevented my en- joying so early as I wished. While 1 was, in compliance with your commands, waiting your ladyship's return from airing, I discov- ered that lord Chatterton and sir George Worthy are one and the same person ; it, therefore, struck me that your ladyship hav- ing seen his portrait in my possession, might entertain but an indifferent opinion of my character. It might also occasion uneasi- ness between my lord and you, and inter- rupt that felicity which I fervently wish mav be as lasting as your lives. I thought it my duty, therefore, to explain to your ladyship the means by which this portrait came into my possession. ' I once, madam, lived in the family of the «'b 270 REBECCA. late lady Mary Worthy, more as a highly favored companion than a servant. Indeed, she was to me a generous friend, a dear and respected benefactress, whom living 1 loved with the affection of a daughter, and whom dead I can never cease to lament. 1 Some months after her death I received her portrait as a present from sir George, by the hand of Mrs Harley, her ladyship ? s housekeeper, but did not know it contained the resemblance of sir George, till some time after it had been in my possession; nor have 1 seen him since till about two months ago, when 1 accidentally met him in the street, and then we scarcely spoke to each other. ' Permit me, madam, to return my thanks for the unexpected bounty you so delicately bestowed upon me; to thank you also for that benevolence of heart which led you so far to interest yourself in my behalf, as to wish again to see me; to have enjoyed your friendly protection would have been a cor- dial to my depressed soul ; to deserve it, the study of my life. But, alas! madam, an in- surmountable obstacle is placed between me and so enviable a distinction. Since 1 was so happy as to meet you, a circumstance has occurred which will prevent my again hav- ing the pleasure of waiting upon you ; but permit me to offer up the most ardent peti- tions for the continued happiness of your- self and lord. May peace and love ever REBECCA. 271 dwell in your bosoms, and prosperity crown your days. Permit me also to add, that however inconsistent my conduct may ap- pear, my heart will ever overflow with the most grateful affection towards your lady- ship, while it beats in the breast of, Your obliged humble servant, REBECCA LITTLETON.'' 'I can't comprehend all this,' said lady Chatterton, putting the letter into George Littleton's hand. He ran his eye hastily over the contents. 'But I can,' said he ; ' I conceive it all; the dear girl has never heard of the discov- ery of the real sir George Worthy. She im- agines me to be your husband, and the gen- erosity of her soul will not suffer her to throw herself in the way of a man who once professed to love her, and whom, from the whole tenor of her conduct, 1 have reason to think she loves.' ' I would lay my life she is a good girl,' said lady Chatterton; 'indeed, her counte- nance appeared the index of a mind replete with innocence and purity. 1 will instantly order the carriage and go to her; nor will i return without her.' 'Dear, generous lady Chatterton,' said George, ringing the bell. ' Where is the person who brought this letter?' said the lady. 272 REBECCA. 'It was brought by a porter, madam, and he did not stop a moment.' The jo_y that had for a moment animated the features of George, instantly vanished. He again caught up the letter, but there was no address annexed to it. After every probable method had been taken by Mr Littleton, George, and lady Chatterton to discover our heroine's retreat, all proving equally ineffectual, they were obliged to rest satisfied that no exertion of theirs had been wanting, and trust to chance for a discovery, which, their united endeav- ors had not been able to make. Old Mr Lit- tleton began to be tired of living on shore, and applied for employment; but as he an- nexed to the request the condition of being promoted in the service, he found but little attention was paid to it, and he only obtain- ed promises, that when opportunity offered he should be remembered. He spent great part of his time with the Chatterton family, and as the summer approached it was pro- posed, that both himself and George should accompany them to their country seat. Lady Chatterton's birth day was on the 7th of June, and she made a point of always celebrating it before she left town, her hus- band regularly presenting her with five hun- dred pounds to be expended on the occasion. Mr Clayton, his lordship's chaplain, being caterer extraordinary, always provided the REBECCA. 273 entertainment, in which her ladyship was so very selfish, as to allow no one to partake but her husband, this identical chaplain and herself. Mr Clayton was always extremely busy for some weeks previous to the day; the whole cities of London, Westminster, and their environs, being ransacked for delica- cies to suit her ladyship's taste; for on this day she was a real voluptuary, though all the rest of her life was marked by temper- ance and moderation. But to speak without a metaphor, lady Chatterton was a woman of so unfashionable a turn, that, rather than raise the envy of half the town by giving a splendid ball, she chose to expend the mon- ey her husband gave her in relieving indi- gence, and raising depressed merit. 'There shall be some cause for rejoicing on my birth-day/ said she, 'for 1 will cheer the afflicted spirit, and fulfd the duties in- cumbent on my station: we were created to be of service to each other, and we have no reason to rejoice in our creation, but as we fulfil the design of our Creator.' Mr Clayton, therefore, carefully searched for objects proper to excite her ladyship's compassion, and share her benevolence. — The happy season now drew near, and Mr Clayton took his usual walks round the me- tropolis, while, with a laudable curiosity, he made little errands into chandlers' shops, 274 REBECCA. green stalls, and public houses, in order to learn the circumstances of the people in ev- ery poor neighborhood through which he passed. It happened as he was purchasing some barley-sugar at a shop of the former description, he saw two suspicious looking men ascend the stairs, and immediately af- ter heard a bustle in the apartment over the shop. Presently the men came down, ac- companied by a genleel looking man in deep mourning. He had the air and manner of a gentleman ; but his uncombed hair, and pale, unshaven face, bespoke a mind ill at ease. 'Well, they have nabbed him at last,' said the mistress of the shop, as the young man and his ungenteel companions left the house together. 'Would you believe it, sir, that young man, not six months ago, was one of the gayest bucks about town. 1 re- member him flashing away like a lord, and I was told he visited lords and gentlefolks of great fortune. Indeed, they did say, there was a lady of quality in love with him ; but that was not much to his credit or ad- vantage, for she was a married woman, and once he nearly lost his life by her husband."' ' But if he were so gay,' said Clayton, 'how came he to be so reduced as he now appears V ' Why, sir, you must know I can give good information, for I once lived servant in the family, though now, thank God, I can hold REBECCA. 273 up my head without service, or without be* ing beholden to any body, and that is more than every one can say.' 'Well; but about the young gentleman,' said Clayton, rather impatiently. 1 Yes, as I was saying, he was a gay spark, and Miss, his sister, a very fine lady. His father was a merchant, kept a large house in the city, and lived away at a very high rate; coach, servants, every thing like a lord. Well, behold you, he died about six months ago, and left not a farthing behind him; so away went coach, fine house, furni- ture, plate and all, to pay his debts, and madam, Miss, and her brother forced to hum- ble themselves, so they came to lodge with me. The young man got a trifling place in some office, and that is all they have to live on, which, I believe in my conscience, is lit- tle enough, for they run some long bills with me. Why, sir, they owes me above three guineas now; but, seeing as how other peo- ple arc taking measures to get their own, I shall make bold to ask for mine. Charity begins at home, is an old proverb, and a very good one. Don't you think so. sir? If Mr SaVage can't pay his tailor, mayhap, when the bill gels a little higher he may not be able to pay me.' 'True,' said Clayton, coldly; ' but pray could you bring me to a sight of Mrs Sav- age or her daughter?' 27G REBECCA. 'Lord, not I; they are so proud, that if a body offers to speak or introduce a friend, they are upon stilts directly.' 1 Well, but pray step up with a civil mes- sage from me ; say I wish to speak with them on particular business.' 'And who must I tell them you are, §ir?' ' My name is of no consequence ; only say a clergyman.' The woman executed the commission, and, soon returning, he was desired to walk up. On entering a small ill-furnished apart- ment, he beheld two charmingly preposses- sing women, the eldest did not appear to be more than forty years old, and the youngest seventeen; they were dressed in mourning, plain, but very becoming, and had much the air of women of fashion. He apologized for the seeming rudeness of a stranger intruding himself into their apartments uninvited, said that he had seen the transaction of the arrest, and thought it might be in his power to alleviate, if not entirely remove, their distresses. The mother's eyes overflowed at the men- tion of her son's imprisonment. Her daugh- ter took her hand, pressed it to her lips, and gave her a consolatory look ; but the startling drops of sympathy that trembled in her eyes forbade her utterance. 'Lady Chatterton will dry those tears,' said Clayton, mentally, 'or I am deceived REBECCA. 277 ia her character. What a pity so much sweetness should droop under the heavy hand of affliction !' Clayton was a young man — Miss Savage a charming woman. He drew from them, in the most delicate manner, an account of their various embar- rassments in pecuniary matters, said he had known the late Mr Savage, and once re- ceived a great obligation at his hands, which he was happy in having now the power to return, requested they would consider him as their banker ; '•for, my dear Miss,' said he to the daughter, 'I owed your father a considerable sum of money.' He then pre- sented them with the whole contents of his purse, as he said, in part payment, and de- parted, promising to see them again soon. His assertions, in regard to having known Mr Savage, were not strictly true; but it was a pious fraud, which he reconciled by reflecting that every Christian owed a debt of charity to the distressed and afflicted, by which he prevailed on the distressed ladies to accept pecuniary aid, and he humbly trusted, the design would sanctify the act. Two days from this was lady Chatterlon's birth-day. — ' Come, Clayton,' said she, when she had read the memorandums over of that day's route, l we will pay the first visit to your pretty Savage.' Clayton introduced her to the ladies as a 24 278 REBECCA. person courting their friendship and desk rous of serving them. From them she learn- ed that young Savage, when arrested, hav- ing not the least hope of liberation, had in- sisted on being immediately conveyed to prison. 'Then we will go and find a key to open those tremendous doors,' said lady Chatter- ton, 'and 1 think,' (glancing her eye over her memorandums) ' 1 have some other busi- ness to transact there. My dear ladies 1 will soon send this beloved son and brother to you, on condition you all dine with me to day at five o'clock.' She presented her card and departed, leaving the ladies op- pressed by sensations which could only be expressed by tears. Lady Chatterton proceeded to the prison, and was introduced to young Savage, whom she immediately congratulated on his liber- ty. 'Your disagreeable business is all set- tled, sir,' said she, ' and I beg you will hasten home to your expecting mother and sister.' Savage gazed at lady Chatterton with aston- ishment; for, habited as she was, in a plain robe of white muslin, a bonnet, and a cloak of the same materials, and led by the hand of the meek, benevolent-looking Clayton, he knew not whether to consider her as an inhabitant of this globe or a celestial spirit. ' If what you say, madam,"' cried he, 'be really true, and 1 have no reason to doubt REBECCA. 270 it, for your countenance is benevolence it- self. Pardon my seeming ingratitude, but I could have wished ihe affair had not been so hastily concluded. 1 'Strange, indeed I 1 said her ladyship ; — c Do you not want liberty ?' 'Most ardently, madam; but there is in this habitation of misery, an object more de- serving your charitable notice, an object so pitiable, so very interesting to the feelings of humanity, that I could, with satisfaction, have seen the liberality extended in my be- half, transferred to her.' 'Thank heaven,' said her ladyship, 'nei- ther the means of comforting the afflicted, nor the will to use those means arc denied me; neither my heart or purse are limited. Come, sir, lead on to the place where 1 may dry the tear of sorrow, and gladden the pris- oner's ear by the welcome sound of liberty.' Savage led the way to a miserable room, in which, on a truss of straw, for neither bed or chair appeared in the apartment, laid an elderly woman almost worn to a skeleton, whose haggard looks and labored breathing, seemed to portend approaching dissolution. On the same straw, supporting the aged in- valid's head in her lap, sat the almost shad- owy figure of a young creature, habited in a white bed-gown, her hair hanging negligent- ly over her face and shoulders, one hand held the burning forehead of the apparently 280 REBECCA. dying woman, the other hung motionless by her side. Beside them stood a pitcher of waier, and a small brown loaf. 'Heaven preserve us,' said lady Chatter- ton, gasping for breath, 'what a scene is here!' The old woman raised her languid eyes at the sound of the voice, but the young woman remained in the same posture, nor seemed to heed that any one approached. Lady Chatterton now drew near, took her hand, and, in a voice soft as the music of the spheres, bid her be comforted. 'Come, cheer up, my poor girl,' said she, ' 1 will do all I can to serve you.' She turned her head, looked earnestly at lady Chatterton, a faint glow rushed over her pale features, and ns quickly disappear- ed as she exclaimed, ' Oh ! i know you ; you are an angel of benevolence,'' and fainted. She was immediately conveyed to the air, and, on cutting the lace of her stays, lady Chatterton saw a small shagreen case, hung pendant from her neck by a riband. A sud- den irresistible impulse led her to open it, when the portraits Of George Littleton and lady Mary struck her sight. She looked again on the young woman, who was now just recovering, and instantly, in her reani- mated countenance, recognised the features of Rebecca. The debt, for which her mother had been thrown into prison, was fifteen pounds, which REBECCA. 28 i was contracted with the apothecary during her and Rebecca's illness. Lady Chatter- ton soon contrived to have it discharged, and poor Mrs Serlc, being tenderly informed of her liberation, was carefully placed in a car- riage, her daughter on one side, and her de- liverer on the other, who supported her as the coach moved slowly towards St Alban Street; nor ever did conqueror, in his trium- phal car, feel more exulting sensations than did her ladyship when she led the grateful, trembling Rebecca into her own house, saw her mother laid in a comfortable bed, and heard from a physician, that tender atten- tion and peace of mind would be more effi- cacious towards her restoration than medi- cine. He also ordered Rebecca to be im- mediately put to bed, and take some wine and water, with a few drops of laudanum in it, as the agitation of her spirits and sudden change of fortune had occasioned a wildness in her looks, and an incoherence in her dis- course, that rather alarmed him. Lady Chatterton saw the prescription administer- ed, and then descended to meet the guests in the dining-parlor, while the exhausted Rebecca sunk into a more peaceful slumber than she had enjoyed for many months. 2*4* 282 REBECCA. CHAPTER XVI. The parly assembled in the dining-parlor, lord and lady Chatterton, the Savages, Mr Clayton, George Littleton and his father. It was a tender, difficult task to inform these affectionate relations that Rebecca was found, yet it was a task her ladyship's gen- erous heart burned to execute. Gently, and by degrees, she made the interesting discov- ery ; but when George knew his Rebecca was really in the house, it was impossible to prevent his flying to the' apartment that con- tained her; Mr Littleton followed. They entered the chamber with cautious step — George softly drew aside the curtain. She was in a profound sleep. He stood gazing with a look of joy, mingled with tender pity, on her altered countenance. Mr Littleton sunk on a chair by the bed-side. 'Oh! my poor suffering girl,' said he, ' how art thou changed !' His head fell on the pillow beside her, and tears rushed down his venerable countenance. Rebecca moved, the nurse forced George from her bed-side. She opened her eyes; the power of recollection seemed, for a time, suspended. She looked wildly round her. 'Where is my mother?' said she, 'I will not be taken from her. If she must die in REBECCA. 283 prison, I will die with her. 1 She raised her- self in bed, and saw her uncle. ' Rebecca,' said he, in an accent of tender- ness, ' have you forgotten me, my dear?' ' Oh ! no, my beloved uncle.' said she, her head dropping on his shoulder. 'Oh, no! How long have you been in England ?' Then pausing a moment, ' But what have they done with my mother?' 1 She is safe my love; endeavor to recol- lect yourself. Do you not know she came with you to this house? She is in bed in the next room.' Rebecca put her hand to her forehead. ' I am striving to think,' said she, k but I cannot remember where I am, or how I came here.' By degrees the power of recollection re- turned, and every circumstance recurred to her memory. 'I am in the house of lord Chattcrton,' said she, ' I could have prefer- red any other.' ' But suppose, my dear girl, lord Chatter- ton should not be the person you think him? Suppose he should be a man whom you have never seen.' She listened in silence, and her uncle, in the motet cautious manner, informed her of his having found a son, and that son was the man she imagined married lady Eleanor Harcourt. The relation was wonderful. Rebecca 204 REBECCA could scarcely credit it, yet, if it were really true, if she were still beloved by the man whose image was engraven on her heart, and, indeed, released from the vow she had so solemnly given her deceased benefactress. The rapidity with which these thoughts rush- ed through her brain, and the violent emo- tions of her heart, almost overpowered her weak frame. She breathed with difficulty, her eyes grew dim, the attendant perceived the change, and giving her a few drops in some water recalled her fleeting spirits. 'And where is this new cousin of mine?' said she, with a faint smile, when she was somewhat recovered,' methinks I should like to see him.' George's heart palpitated violently. He drew near the bed-side of his beloved, drop- ped on one knee and cried, 'Oh! my Re- becca, behold me here !' A smile of ineffable pleasure beamed over the countenance of Rebecca while she ex- tended her hand towards her lover. He took it and pressed it to his lips. The en- suing scene can be easily imagined by the feeling heart, and to those devoid of sensi- bility, the description would be insipid; we will, therefore, pass it over in silence. Peace being now restored to the bosom of our heroine, her health, her vivacity and bloom, rapidly returned. Her mother too, REBECCA. 285 recovered a sufficient degree of health to enable her to participate in her daughter's happiness. An early day was named for the union of George and Rebecca, previous to which lord Chatter ton procured the old lieuten- ant to be superannuated, and a handsome pension was given him in return for his long and faithful services; a lucrative post was also procured for George Littleton, but he requested leave to transfer it to young Sav- age. 'J must beseech your lordship to pardon me,' said George, 'but that young gentle- man has no means, whatever, of supporting bis truly amiable mother and sister. For my own part, though in the early part of life accustomed to all the indulgcncies which the possession of an affluent fortune could bring. I have long been convinced, that abundance of riches cannot secure happi- ness. Possessed of my beloved Rebecca, whose humble spirit will enjoy most felici- ty in the quiet, undisturbed walks of life, beholding my father possessed of sufficient to make his setting sun serene and unclou- ded, what should 1 desire more? We will retire into Berkshire to the estate which you have so generously settled on my fam- ily, and if we can once a year boast of the honor of a visit from you and your ac- 236 REBECCA. complished lady, I shall certainly be the happiest mortal breathing.' His lordship was exceedingly gratified with George's frankness; and accordingly the place uas given to young Savage, who was equally capable of discharging all the duties incumbent upon him with honor and integrity. Lady Chatterton had, with her lord's un- reserved approbation, ordered a settlement to he made on Rebecca of two thousand pounds, which sum his lordship supplied and placed in the funds for her own partic- ular use. The day afier the union took place, Re- becca, George, Mr Littleton, and Mrs Scrle took a most affectionate leave of their gen- erous and warm-hearted friends in St Al- ban Street, and departed for Berkshire. — The situation was beautiful almost beyond description, and the neat cottage-like ap- pearance of the house, together with the beautiful simplicity of the furniture, affor- ded Rebecca the most pleasurable sensa- tions. No very considerable length of time elapsed before she was visited by the neigh- boring gentry, among whom, what was her surprise to see lady Wintcrlon, whose sa- ble habiliments denoted that she was at last emancipated from that worst of all slavery, wedlock, with the man, for whom she could have no love. REBECCA. 237 She informed our heroine, that her health was so impaired by vexation, and the ef- fects of the wound she had received, that her life was thought to have been in immi- nent danger. Change of air was prescribed by her physicians, and her lord had her re- moved to a small estate which he possessed in Berkshire ; also, that she had derived considerable benefit from the change, but from the time of their leaving town her lord's health had declined; he had been subject to an asthmatic complaint, which latterly increased upon him, and had ter- minated his life about two months before Rebecca's arrival in the country. Lady Winterton was certainly possessed of too much delicacy in her present circum- stances to mention the name of Savage. It is true she had been imprudent, but never criminal. Sickness had moderated the ex- treme vivacity of her disposition, and led her to reflect. She could not avoid wish- ing to hear of him, or learn the reason why, from the fatal evening when they met at Cheswick, he had never attempted to write to or see her. She was entirely ignorant of his fate^from that time, yet she kept those wishes concealed. Lord and Lady Ossiter continued on the continent, where, immersed in vice and dis- sipation, his lordship fell a victim to intem- perance, and her ladyship became notori- 288 REBECCA. ous for her gallantry; forgetful of the sa- cred name of mother, she gave the reins to folly, and publicly defied the laws of virtue and religion. Though Rebecca, from the variegated scenes through which she had passed, had purchased a most complete knowledge of the world, yet it had not hardened her heart or rendered her callous to the calls of mis- ery ; her prudence in her family concerns enabled her ever to have a morsel for the hungry, and a garment to throw over the destitute orphan. When the poor saw her, they blessed her — infant lips set forth her praises — aged knees bent for her before the Throne of Grace. She cheered the decli- ning years of her mother and uncle — they called down blessings on her head. Her husband adored her; the smile of content dimpled on her cheek, and her dwel- ling was the mansion of peace. THE END. REBECCA; li THE FH.LE DF. C !' X &B11& !