University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
A LESSON—CHANGE OF SCENE.

“As I live, sir,” said she in delight, “there is
the place I wanted to visit.”

“Then we will go in and see how the poor people
are,” said Mr. Matthews.

They entered, but how changed was the scene, a
clean though coarsely furnished bed stood in one
corner of the room; the old wooden frame had been
removed; the room was neatly swept and sanded, a
new sauce pan was by the fire, in which gruel was
boiling, the sick woman and her infant were in clean
clothes befitting their station, and the old mother also
appeared in better habiliments, whilst a healthy
looking young woman was busied about some domestic
concerns.

Every thing wore such a look of comfort, that
Lady Mary thought she had mistaken the place.
But the old woman recognized her, and rising, began
to say how lucky her good ladyship's visit had been
to them all, for that morning two beautiful young
ladies came to see them.

“Mayhap,” continued she, “they be your sisters,
though they were so good natured and condescending,
they seemed more like angels than aught else;
and it was not more than two hours after they went
away before a man came to the door with a cart, and
what should be in it, think ye, but that nice bedstead
and bed, with blankets, and sheets, and coverlet, and

some clothes for Sally and her baby; and he brought
that good young body to tend she, till she be up
again; dear heart! how John will be surprised when
he comes home, he won't know his place, not he, but
will think the fairies have been here.”

“Ah!” said Lady Mary, looking at Mr. Matthews,
“I fancy I know who the fairies were.”

The Rector put his finger on his lip, and telling
the women that he was glad to find they were so
well provided for, he led his ward from the cottage.

“Now, Mary,” said he smiling, “how much do
you think those fairies whom you so shrewdly guess
at, expended for all the comforts and conveniences,
these poor people seem to have acquired, since last
evening.”

“Oh! a great deal,” said she, “more than five
guineas, I dare say. First there is a bed—”

“That is not a bed, but a second hand mattrass,
which, though a good one, cost little or nothing.
The blankets and coverlet, came from my house, and
are with the bed linen lent only. If we find the
woman on her recovery, industrious, clean, and well
behaved, they will be given to her. The rest was
very trifling, a little tea, oatmeal, sugar, and materials
for brown bread, half a cheese, half a side of bacon,
some coals and candles, were all purchased for less
than a guinea and a half. Had you given the sum you
intended, they would have squandered it away, and
not made themselves half so comfortable. I make a
point of inquiring the characters of any poor, who are
my parishioners, before I give them any relief, and
this morning while Lucy and Aura were visiting your

protégés, I investigated their character. The man
is an honest hard working fellow, his wife, I find
from good authority, is idle, and by no means cleanly
in her habits. You, child, have no idea how much the
prosperity and comfort of a poor man, and often of a
rich man too, depends on the conduct of his wife.
The old woman is his wife's mother, she is old and
feeble, can do but little, and often, by a querulous
temper, makes things worse than they would otherwise
be. You say the children were ragged and
dirty; I shall see that they are comfortably clothed,
and, if I find that the clothes are kept whole and
clean, I will befriend the family farther, but if they
are let run to rags, without washing or mending, I
shall do no more.”

Thus, in walking, chatting, making various calls,
and commenting on the scenes they witnessed, time
passed unobserved by Lady Mary. At length Mr.
Matthews, drawing out his watch, exclaimed, “I
protest, it is almost four o'clock.”

“Indeed!” said Mary, “I am afraid we shall
have dinner waiting.” The Rector's hour of dining
was half past three.

“I do not think they will wait,” he replied, “I
have frequently requested they would not wait for
me, for you know I am frequently detained by a
sick bed, or an unhappy person whose mind is depressed.”

They had now a mile to walk, and Lady Mary
assured the Rector that she was “very, very hungry!”
Arriving at home they discovered that the
family had dined, and the ladies gone out on some

particular purpose. A cloth had been therefore laid
in the study for the ramblers.

“Come,” said Mr. Matthews, “sit down, Mary,
you say you are hungry, we will waive ceremony on
this occasion, and you shall dine in your morning
dress. What have we here?” he continued raising a
cover, and discovering part of a boiled leg of mutton,
which had been kept perfectly hot, and on a dish
beside it stood a few turnips not mashed.

“Are there no capers, John?”

“No sir, the cook did not recollect that they were
out till it was too late to get any, and my mistress
said she was sure you would excuse it.”

“Well, well, we must do as well as we can,” said
he, laying a slice of mutton and one of the turnips,
on Lady Mary's plate.

She did not wait for other sauce than a keen appetite,
but having dispatched two or three slices of the
meat, with a good quantity of the vegetable and
bread, declared she never had relished a dinner so
well in her life.

“You will have a bit of tart?” said the Rector,
“I warrant John can find one, or a bit of cheese and
biscuit.”

“Oh no! my dear sir, I have eaten so heartily.”

“Poor dear young woman!” said Mr. Matthews,
in an affected tone of sensibility, “how my heart
aches for you, out all the morning, walking from
cottage to cottage, coming home hungry and weary,
and had nothing to eat but a bit of boiled mutton
and turnips, and to wash it down, a glass of cold
water.” Here Mr. Matthews pretended to sob;

when Lady Mary comprehending the ridicule, burst
out a laughing.

“You see, my child,” said he, assuming his own
kind and gracious manner, “how misplaced sensibility
is, when it fancies any thing more than wholesome
fare, however plain or coarse it may be, is
necessary to satisfy the appetite of those whom exercise
or labour have rendered really hungry. Where
indeed there is a scanty quantity, it should awaken
our good feelings, and lead us to extend the hand of
charity.”

“Dear Sir,” said Lady Mary, “you have this day
taught me a lesson that I trust through life I shall
never forget.”

Month after month, and year after year, passed on
while Mr. Matthews was endeavouring to cultivate
the understandings, fortify the principles, and, by air
and exercise, invigorate the frames of his fair wards.
During the six pleasantest months, masters in music
and drawing, from Southampton, attended Lady
Mary and Miss Blakeney, and the other six, they
employed themselves in imparting what they had
gained to Aura Melville, in her leisure hours.

Thus they were improved in a far greater degree,
by the attention necessary to bestow on every acquirement
in which they were desirous to instruct her.
There were many genteel families in the neighbourhood,
but none visited on a more intimate footing,
than that of Sir Robert Ainslie. His son Edward,
had become a great favourite at the Rectory, ever
since they had known the story of old Dame Lonsdale

and the cottage; but as he was pursuing his
studies at Oxford, they saw him but seldom.

It was in the summer of 1794, when Lucy had
just entered her twentieth year, that Mrs. Cavendish
proposed that, to change the scene, and give the
young people a glimpse of the fashionable world, a
few weeks should be spent in Brighton, and that, the
ensuing winter, they should go to London. Mr. and
Mrs. Matthews were fondly attached to the place
where they had passed so many happy years, yet,
sensible that Lucy in particular, should be introduced
properly into a world where she would most likely
be called upon to act a prominent part, they consented,
and about the latter part of June, they commenced
their journey.

Sir Robert Ainslie and his son were to meet them
there, for Edward was to be their escort to public
places, when Mr. Matthews felt disinclined to mix
in the gay scenes of fashionable life, their attendant
in walks upon the Stiene, or excursions in the beautiful
environs of Brighton.

This was very pleasant to the whole party. The
elderly ladies were fond of the society of Sir Robert.
Mr. Matthews regarded him as an old and esteemed
friend, and the young ones as a kind of parent, and
his son as their brother. Lady Mary, indeed, could
have fancied herself in love with Edward, and often
in the most pathetic terms lamented to her young
companions that he was not nobly born, he was so
handsome, so generous, so gallant.

“Yes,” said Aura, with an arch glance from under
her long eyelashes, “so generally gallant that no one

can have the vanity to suppose herself a particular
favourite.”

“No, indeed that is true, and I should lament to find
myself particularized by him, as you know my poor
mother used to say, she should not rest in her grave
if she thought I should ever match myself with any
one below the rank of nobility.”

“I think,” said Aura, laughing, “you need be
under no apprehension, unless indeed it should be
from the fear that should he offer, you might not be
able to keep your resolution.”

They were soon settled in their new abode at
Brighton, their names enrolled on the books at the
rooms, libraries, &c. and the unaffected manners of
the three fair orphans, their simple style of dress,
unobtrusive beauty, and the general report that they
were all three heiresses, drew numerous admirers
and pretenders, around them. But the grave and
gentlemanly manners of Mr. Matthews, the stately
hauteur of Mrs. Cavendish, with the brotherly attention
of Edward Ainslie, kept impertinence and intrusion
at an awful distance.

Edward felt kindly to all, but his heart gave the
preference to Lucy, though he feared to give way to
its natural impulse, lest the world, nay, even the
object of his tenderness, should think him interested.

Sir Robert Ainslie had two sons and a daughter by
a former marriage; these were married and settled,
and were too much the seniors of the present young
party to ever have been in habits of intimacy with
them. The mother of Edward had survived his
birth but a few years; and he became the consoler,

delight, and darling of his father. The youth
was endowed with fine talents, a mind of the strictest
rectitude, and perhaps a remark that his cool, calculating,
eldest brother once made, that it would be a
fine spec for Ned, if he could catch the handsome
heiress, led him to put a curb on that sensibility and
admiration, which might otherwise have led him
to appear as her professed lover.

One fine morning, as they were strolling on the
Stiene, an elegant youth, in military uniform, accosted
him with “Ainslie, my dear lad, how are you, this
is a lucky encounter for me, for I hope you spend
some time here, my regiment is here on duty for six
months.” Edward received his proffered hand with
great cordiality, and presenting him to the ladies as
Lieutenant Frranklin, of the — regiment, named
to his friend, each of the fair trio, and he joining the
party, they sauntered on the sands an hour longer,
waited on the ladies to Mr. Matthews' door, and then
both gentlemen bade them good morning.

“Why, you are in luck's way, Ned,” said the officer,
“to be on such easy terms with the Graces, for
really I must say your three beauties are worthy that
appellation. Are you in any way related to either of
them?”

“By no means,” he replied, “my father is guardian
to one, who is a splendid heiress, and in habits
of great intimacy with the reverend Mr. Matthews,
who is guardian to the other two.”

“Heiresses also, eh! Ned?”

“Not exactly so, one has a genteel independence,
the other, poor girl, is an orphan, whose family is

only known to her guardian, and whose fortune, if
report says true, depends entirely on his kindness.”

“But which is the heiress?”

“That I shall leave to your sagacity to discover;
but I hope you do not mean to set out in life, with
interested views in the choice of a partner?”

“Oh no, my good grandfather took care I should
have no occasion to do that, he left me enough for
comfort, and even elegance, with prudent management,
and as I have no propensities for gaming,
racing, or other fashionable follies, I shall look out
for good nature, good sense, and discretion in a wife,
in preference to wealth. To be sure, a little beauty,
and a handsome address, would, though not indispensable,
be very acceptable qualities.”

Lieutenant Franklin was the eldest of four sons,
his father was an officer of artillery, had seen some
hard service, passed a number of years abroad, and
during that period had accumulated a large fortune.
He had married the only daughter of a wealthy man,
resident in the part of the world where he was stationed;
was intrusted by government with providing
military stores, &c. during a seven years' war, for a
large army in actual service, and when the war was
ended, returned to his own country; which he had
left nine years before, a Captain of Artillery, with
little besides his pay, an honourable descent, and fair
character, to receive the thanks of royalty for his
intrepidity, and to dash into the world of splendour
and gaiety. His house was one of the most elegant in
Portland place, his equipage and establishment, such
as might have become a nobleman of the first rank.

Bellevue, a large estate near Feversham in Kent, consisting
of a large handsome and commodious mansion,
several well tenanted farms, pleasure grounds, fish
ponds, green and hot houses, was purchased for his
summer residence.

Promoted to the rank of Colonel of artillery, and
having held the office of chief engineer during his
service abroad, the father of Lieutenant Franklin
stood in an elevated rank, and associated with the
first personages in the kingdom. His eldest son, as
has been mentioned, was amply provided for, and
had chosen the army for his profession. The others,
as yet little more than boys, were finishing their
education at some of the best establishments near
London. His two daughters, Julia and Harriet, were
attended by masters at home, under the superintendence
of an excellent governess.

From the moment of his introduction to the family
of Mr. Matthews, Sir Robert Ainslie having spoken
of him in high terms, Mr. Franklin became a
frequent and always a welcome guest. Though Miss
Blakeney was known to have an independent fortune,
its extent was not confided even to herself; for Mr.
Matthews knew that wealth attracts flattery and good
as he believed Lucy's heart to be, he feared for the
frailty of human nature, if exposed to the breath of
that worst of mental poisons, injudicious and indiscriminate
adulation.

A cursory observer would never have taken Lucy
for the independent heiress, the retired modesty of
her manners, the respectful deference which she paid
her guardian and his family, united to an intuitive

politeness and real affection with which she ever distinguished
Aura Melville, would have led any one
to think she was the dependent.

Lady Mary was afraid of Aura, her wit, though
in general harmlessly playful, was sometimes sarcastic,
and the vain girl of quality often smarted under
its lash, and if she met the steady eye of Aura, at a
time when she was displaying airs of self complacency,
her own would sink under it. The seniors of
the family encouraged this involuntary respect paid
to their protégeé, and hy their own manner towards
her gave their visitors reason to think, that they
were receiving, rather than conferring a favour, by
her residence among them.

Thus every circumstance coincided to establish the
general idea entertained that Aura was the independent
heiress, Lady Mary, a young person of rank,
with only a moderate fortune, and Lucy Blakeney,
the orphan, depending on the kindness of Mr. Matthews.
Another circumstance contributed to the mistake.
Miss Blakeney, though her guardian allowed
her a very handsome stipend for clothes and pocket
money, was yet extremely simple in her attire,
her apparel was ever of the best quality, but it was
unostentatious, no display of splendour, no glitter or
finery disfigured her interesting person; and she
scarcely ever purchased a handsome article of dress
for public occasions, without presenting something
of the same kind, perhaps more elegant or of a finer
texture than her own, to her friend Miss Melville,
yet she contrived to do this without its being observed,
for in all their little shopping parties, Aura was

uniformly pursebearer, as Lucy used laughingly to
say, to save herself trouble, but in reality to hide her
own liberality.

Franklin then easily fell into the common error;
and charmed with the person and manners of Miss
Blakeney, feeling how proud and happy he should
feel to raise so lovely a young woman from dependence
to a state of comparative affluence, he determined to
scrutinize her conduct, mark her disposition, and
should all agree with the captivating external, to offer
her his hand, and devote his life to her happiness.
Lucy Blakeney, had she been really a destitute orphan,
would, when she perceived Franklin's attentions
to be serious, and supposed that he imagined
her to be an heiress, have insisted on Mr. Matthews'
explaining her real situation; but when the reverse
was the case, what woman but would have felt highly
flattered by the attentions of one of the handsomest
officers of the corps to which he belonged, a man of
honour, and perfect rectitude of conduct, high in the
esteem of personages of the first rank, and known to
be in possession of a handsome fortune, who thus
avowedly loved her for herself alone?

Mr. Matthews had a little spice of romance in his
composition, and although he did not withdraw the
veil from Miss Blakeney's situation, he would have
shrunk with horror from the idea of obtaining a
splendid alliance for Aura upon the false supposition
of her being an heiress.

But there was no immediate call on the integrity
of the conscientious guardian on this account.
Though numerous were the moths and summer flies

who, in expectation of a rich remuneration flitted
round Aura Melville, she kept them at such a distance,
that they neither disturbed her peace or
annoyed her in any way. They were all treated
alike, sometimes listened to with perfect nonchalance,
sometimes laughed at, and often mortified with
an hauteur which bordered on contempt.