The fille de chambre :: :: University of Virginia Library

When the mind of Rebecca became a little composed,
Harley prevailed on her to take some
refreshment. She took a few mouthfuls of boiled chicken
and drank a glass of wine, and then inquired in
which room the remains of her revered benefactress lay.

“In her own dressing-room as yet,” said Harley;
“but to-morrow she will be removed.”

Rebecca said but little more, and Harley thinking
the fatigue of her journey, and the agitation of her
mind combined, might incline her to go early to 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 unkindness of her mother was remembered
with double anguish, and her own friendless situation
struck so forcibly on her mind, that her sorrow became
almost insupportable. At length her tears seemed
exhausted; a kind of torpid calm succeeded, and she
formed the resolution of visiting the chamber that contained
the deceased Lady Mary.

With hasty and unequal step she reached the door of
the apartment, opened it softly, and paused for a moment
to summon all her fortitude.—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 respected her too much to attempt
an intrusion on her grief, but left her to the free indulgence
of it.—She placed the candle she held in her hand
on a table and approached the coffin, gazed, with reverential
awe on that countenance, which had often
beamed on her looks of the kindest benevolence.

“Dear and only friend,” said she, “since thou art
gone, where is there a heart remaining that feels one
spark of affection for the poor Rebecea? Oh my more
than mother, thy adopted child is now berest of every
earthly comfort! Spirit of purity, look down 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 affection with which you honoured me, and
if shall be still 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, that heart which, whilst
it retains your precepts, can never stray from the path
of rectitude, never be unworthy of the regard of all
who love virtue.”—Here her feelings overpowered her;
her head sunk on her hand—her tears again burst forth
—her lips continued to move—but articulation was denied.—At
this instant the door opened, and Sir
George entered. He started involuntarily at beholding
Rebecca. Her pensive attitude, her depressed countenance
plainly depicted the sorrows of her heart; the
afflicted maid had not heard his approach. He drew
near, and laid his hand on one of her's. She raised her
timid eyes, looked at him mournfully, pointed to the
coffin, and cried, emphatically:

“She is gone for ever!”

Sir George really loved and respected his mother; nor
had he heard of her illness when the public prints announced
her decease. Shocked beyond measure, he
instantly took post horses, and never stopped, even for
necessary refreshment, till he alighted at his mother's
gate, saint and fatigued. He asked if his sister was
there, and being informed she was in the drawing-room,
he went hastily up stairs; but how was he disgnsted,
upon entering the room, to see the unfeeling daughter
of so good a mother receive him with the greatest sang
froid.

She arose, presented her cheek, was glad to see him,
slightly mentioned the melancholy event, and soon after
asked him if he intended ordering a mourning coach,
or only to put his servants in black? “I think,” continued
she, “the mournings are much shorter than they
used to be, and nothing near so deep: I am glad of
it; for my own part I detest mourning, it makes one
look so dirty and dismal.”

Just then Lord Ossiter entered, and proposed a game
at cards, by way of whiling away the evening.

“Ah! do join us, George,” said her Ladyship;
“I have been moped to death this week past.”

“I am not in a humour for amusement, sister,” said
Sir George, coldly; “and since you have no feeling
yourself of the irreparable loss we have sustained, I shall
not trouble you with mine, but retire where I may indulge
them uninterrupted.”

How great must be the contrast then between this
unfeeling sister and the affecting sensibility of Rebecca!
He pressed her passive hand in silence, mingled his tears
with her's, and found his heart insensibly relieved.

“My poor mother,” said he, after a pause of a few
moments, “little did I think when we parted it was
the last time!”

“She is undoubtedly happy,” said Rebecca, “in
some measure, forgetting her own sorrow, and wishing
to convey consolation into the bosom of Sir George.”

“Oh! I know she is,” replied Sir George; “if
the practice of every virtue can insure eternal felicity,
she is happy beyond what our weak imaginations can
paint.”

Rebecca's tears streamed afresh.—“Ah! my dear
mother,” said he, “your loved remains are embalmed
by the tears of grateful affection, though thy daughter,
forgetful of thy worth, can amuse herself with trifles,
and neglect the tribute due to thy memory.”

“Ah!” said Rebecca, “I 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 Harley summoned
her to attend Lady Ossiter.

On entering the dressing room, she found her Ladyship
deeply engaged with her mantua-maker and milliner.
She did not even notice the entrance of Rebecca;
but thus continued her directions to the former of her
tradeswomen:

“Let them be made as elegant and as full as possible;
but, at the same time, remember, I wish to pay
every necessary respect to my dear mother. It was a
very sudden thing. Mrs. Modily, you cannot think
how it shocked me; my nerves will not be settled again
this fortnight, I dare say; then, a thing of this
kind forces one to be mewed up, and see no company,
so I thought I might as well stay where I was as go to
town. But, as I was saying, Modily, let my white
bombazine be made very handsome, and full trimmed
with crape: I 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 agreed to all the
Lady said, when, turning round to speak to her milliner,
Lady Ossiter was struck by the elegant person,
and modest humble countenance of Rebecca.

“Oh! I suppose,” said she, carelessly, “you are
the young woman my poor mother mentioned in her
last moments?”

Rebecca courtseyed assent, but was unable to speak.

“Ah! she was very good to you, I ſhe">she was very good to you, I ,
don't make yourself uneasy, I will be you friend
in future.”

Rebecca attempted to express her thanks; but her emotions
were so violent, she was forced to continue silent.

“I dare say, child,” said her Ladyship, “you have
some taste in dress; come, give me your opinion about
the caps I have ordered. Here, La Blond, show her
those caps: well now, what do you think, will these
be deep enough? for, though I hate mourning, I
would not be wanting in respect; one's friends are apt
enough to say ill-natured things; one can't be too cautious
in giving them occasion. Do you think I should
go without powder? You look monstrous well without
powder; but then you have light hair, and your black
dress, though 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 drop off. You
must not be low spirited if you are with me: I hate
low spirited people, though since I lost my poor mother
I have been low enough myself; but I endeavour
to shake it off as much as I can; it is of no manner of
use to grieve; when folks are once dead, we can't recal
them, though we fretted ourselves blind.”

“But we cannot always command our feelings, Madam,”
said Rebecca.

“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.”

“Rebecca, that's a queer old fashion name. I remember
when my mother used to make me read the
great Family Bible, I remember then reading about a
Rebecca Somebody; but, Lord! child, 'tis a vast
vulgar name; I'd alter it if I was you; one never
hears of such a name among people of any resinement.”

“I am sorry it does not please your Ladyship,” said
Rebecca, almost smiling at her absurdity; “but as I
was christened by it I must be satisfied with it.”

“Well, 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 the name
best on account of its oddity) should you have any objection
to enter into my service?”

“Far from it, Madam; I shall cheerfully serve any
part of the family of my dear departed Lady?”

“Ah! but I am not quite so sentimental as my mother
was: I shall not want any body to work and read
by me. I shall want you to be useful; now for instance,

to make up my morning caps, to trim my muslin dresses.
Can you speak French, child?”

“Yes, Madam, and shall be happy to render myself
useful in any thing within the compass of my power.
I do not wish to eat the bread of idleness.”

Rebecca spoke with a degree of spirit that surprised
Lady Ossiter: however, she unabashed, proceeded:

“I have two little boys and a girl; I really have not
time to attend 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?”

“I make no doubt but I can, if I try, and my utmost
endeavours shall not be wanting.”

“That is well. I understand my mother did not
suffer you to 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 undress me.

“I am afraid I should be awkward, Madam; but
if you will pardon my want of experience, you shall
always find me ready to obey your commands.”

“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, retiring to her
apartment, left Lady Ossiter to finish her consultation
with her milliner and mantua-maker—while she took up
her pen, and informed her mother that she had entered
into a new line of life, in which she hoped to be enabled
to do her duty, and gain the approbation of her Lady.