University of Virginia Library

9. CHAP. IX.
MORTALITY.

Small was the rest Sir George enjoyed that
night, and soon as the morning peeped into his
chamber he left his bed, and repaired to the part of the
garden where Le Brun had informed him Rebecca usually
walked; but vain was this early attention, vain
the anxious expectation in which he waited, the goddess
of his morning adoration did not make her appearance,
nay, even 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 one that
looked on a grass plot that 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: “I have walked three hours
for nothing.”

“Oh! Monsieur vill have bon stomache to his dejeunner.”

“Damn the breakfast,” said Sir George, “What

could keep the lovely girl from walking as usual this
morning?”

“She be no awake yet,” said Le Brun. “Mademoiselle
Harley tell me she no ring her bell yet.”

“Then Harley attends her?”

“She vant ver lit attendance; she be von amiable.”

“But Harley answers her bell?”

“Ouè, Monsieur, ouè, no oder 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 of Rebecca.

When Harley attended our heroine at breakfast, she
laid the letter on the table.

“And what is this, Mrs. Harley?” said she, taking
it up.

“A letter, Miss, which I was desired to deliver into
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?”

Harley courtseyed assent.

“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 do you deliver it to the person who
intrusted it to your care.”

“Why, surely,” said Harley, “surely, Miss Becky,
you do not reflect on what you are doing! Sir George
is a man of fortune, a handsome, agreeable man.”

“His beauty to me, Mrs. Harley, would be his
least recommendation: besides, I hope ever to make
it an invariable rule of my conduct to receive no letters
from men, without the sanction of those who are better
judges of what is proper than I 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. Do you deliver
it to the person who gave it to your care.”

“Ah! Miss, I think you will repent, for Le Brun
tells me Sir George loves you to distraction. He has
been walking in the garden these three hours in hopes
of meeting with you.”

“I am vastly obliged to him,” said Rebecca, 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, and 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
partiality.”

“Mrs. Harley,” said Rebecca, opening a drawer
of a small cabinet, “do me the favour to accept these
few yards 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 family.
But, good Mrs. Harley, you must never talk to
me in this manner again. I beg you will not tell me
any thing that Le Brun says; I have no desire—that
is—it is not proper—I must not listen to such discourse.”

Harley, simpering, withdrew, and the innocent
Rebecca little imagined she had betrayed a secret which
she ought to have guarded with the utmost care; nay,
she even did not think that her heart was the least interested
in Sir George's welfare, any otherwise 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 journey; nor did she forget,
among her musick, to put the new song, “It is
certainly extremely pretty,” and she sung it to herself
all the day.

Towards evening Lady Mary rang for Harley.

“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 sat down at your brother's and
stay all night. I will call for you to-morrow as I 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 received every necessary order,
and again thanked her for the integrity of heart
she had so nobly shown in having no concealments 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 imagined Rebecca
was departed.

Sir George, though mortified by the return of his
letter unopened, yet conceived great hopes from the
account Harley gave him of their 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 moment, 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 cottage.

“Ah!” said she, “how surprised and delighted will
the dear old gentleman be to see me arrive so unexpectedly;
nay, I think, even my mother will rejoice to
see her child 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 looked towards

the parlour 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 tone of sorrow,
“I did not think you could have come so soon.”

“What is the matter?” 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, sinking on her
knees, with uplisted 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
him, that I may receive his blessing, and catch his last
figh. Ah! he must not die without a parting embrace
to his Rebecca.”

Mrs. Littleton made no reply, but proceeded 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. I trust you have
found a protector in Lady Mary, and I shall go satistisfied
with that comfortable reflexion.”

“Protector! indeed,” cried Mrs. Littleton, peevisnly;
“heavy was the day when she left her home for

the protection of strangers! I am sure you have never
been well since. This illness is all her fault. You
have done nothing but pine and mope about, and if
any thing happens it will all lay at her door; but she was
so eager forsooth to go, any where rather than home,
she was tired of the company of her old father and mother.”

“Do 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: I
felt it myself, though I forbore to afflict your bosom by
mentioning my apprehension.”

“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. I then desired your mother to send for you;
but tell me, my child, how is it possible you can have
arrived so soon?”

“Alas!” replied Rebecca, “I did not know you
were ill till I arrived at the door. I 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 the
father.

“No indeed,” said she, exultingly; “I am higher
in her esteem than ever.”

“Ah! so she may tell you,” cried Mrs. Littleton;
“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 Rebecca beheld
her mother thus prejudiced against her. She endeavoured
to recollect if any inadvertant expression, in
any of her letters, had given her cause of offence; and,
in hopes to conciliate her good humour, she, in the
evening, opened her trunk, and presented her mother
with the silk before-mentioned.

She received it sullenly, and laying it down, without
scarce deigning to look at it, said, “This is no
time to think of fine clothes, child, though in my
heart I believe your thoughts never run on any thing
else but dress, and fashion, and nonsense.”

The truth was, that if Rebecca had a foible it was
a passion for fashionable dress; but this was never carried
to an extreme, and, though remarkably attentive
to the decoration 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 benefactress, were such painful reflexions, 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 for her mother she had ever manifested.

To Mrs. Littleton he did not fail to recommend a
tenderness of behaviour, that might tend to invite the
confidence of Rebecca. “You are too harsh with the
poor girl,” he would say; “treat her kindly: 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 evil of his favourite,
and died in her arms on the fifth day after her
arrival, blessing her with his last breath.