University of Virginia Library

19. CHAP. XIX.
SEDUCTION.

It was very late when Rebecca entered London, and
she was not enough acquainted 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, without once considering
whether she knew the place; but when she had got in the
hall and the door was shut, just as she was going to run
up stairs, the staircase, which was different to the one she
had been used to, struck her, and turning hastily round to
demand why she was brought to a strange place, she
the parlour door open, and in an instant Lord Ossiter was
at her feet.

“Good God!” said she, “where am I? why am I
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 Ossiter should have treated you so unworthily,
I made use of an innocent stratagem to bring you
back, that I might obtain your pardon, and convince you
that I am ready to expiate, with my life, the offence she
has committed against you.”

“If that is all,” cried Rebecca, scarcely able to respire,
through terror, assure yourself I have forgiven you, my
Lord, and will pardon the deceit you have been guilty
of, if you will suffer me instantly to quit this house, where
every moment I remain fills me with anguish and terror.”

“Why do you wish to quit this house, my dear angel,”
said he, forcibly leading her into the parlour; “it is your
own, every thing in it is your's; all the servants are ready
to obey your commands.” Then ringing the bell, he ordered
all the servants to appear, and bid them consider

Rebecca as their mistress, and obey her, as they valued
his future favour.

“Ah, my friends,” said Rebeca, “do not attend to
what he says; I have no right to command you, I am only
a servant, like yourselves, and such I wish to remain; only
continue to me, just heaven!” cried she, fervently raising
her eyes and hands, “my innocence unsullied, and my
integrity of mind unshaken.”

“Be composed my dearest love,” said his Lordship,
dismissing the servants, “no harm shall happen to you while
under my protection.”

“Oh!” cried she, in an agony, “I see, unless 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 creature at this late
hour; if you quit this house no reputable door will open to
receive you, and I 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 innocently.

“My lovely girl, do but compose your agitated 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 own apartment, where I beg you will take some refreshment,
and endeavour to repose yourself; I swear to
you, Rebecca, I will not enter your chamber till you give
me leave.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Rebecca, “what will become
of me?”

Lord Ossiter retired, and an elderly woman made her
appearance with candles.

Rebecca for a few moments stood irresolute; at length
she determined to go up stairs with the woman, and by a
pretended calmness, endeavoured to sound her principles,
and whether she was entirely devoted to the interest 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's, who was expected from
the country.”

“And when do you expect she will arrive?” said Rebecca,
with assumed indifference.

“Madam,” cried the woman, staring, “are you not
the lady?”

“No, indeed I am no relation of his Lordship's; I
lived in his family, as a servant to dress, undress, and
teach Miss Ossiter to read.”

“But you are just come from the country now, Madam?”

“I was on my journey into the country, when I was
fetched back again. I understood 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 surely have no objection to exchange servitude
for affluence.”

“It is a desirable change, certainly, if made on honourable
terms.”

“Liberality, my dear Madam, is sometimes an equivalent
for honour.”

“Are these your real sentiments?” said 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 barter all she ought to hold
dear in life, for the paltry consideration of splendour?”

She looked, as she spoke, earnestly in the woman's face:
it was an entreating, supplicating look, and the tears
gushed from her eyes.

“I had a daughter once,” replied the attendant, (whom
we shall distinguish by the name of Harris:) “she was
lovely as you are—she was once as innocent; but innocence
could not shield her from the calumny of the world,
and ill treatment depraved a heart formed for the love and
practice of virtue.” She paused, her eyes filled, and Rebecca
began to hope she should find a friend that would
assist her in escaping the artful snare spread by Lord
Ossiter, to entrap her innocence.

Mrs. Harris, finding her remain silent, left the room,
and in about ten minutes returned with a boiled chicken,

which she entreated Rebecca to take part of before she
retired to rest.

“I am totally unable to take any rest,” said Rebecca;
“but where is my Lord?”

“Gone home, and left his valet, in conjunction with
myself, to wait your commands.”

“Or rather to be my jailers,” said Rebecca;” “but
come, Mrs. Harris, (for she had inquired her name) come
sit down, and if you will partake my supper, I will endeavour
to eat some. You were speaking of your daughter,
I should like to hear something more concerning her.”

“Ah, Madam, her story is but short, but it will melt
your heart; indeed I do not know that I should tell it
you at this time, but something whispers me, it will be
right to give you some information concerning the villainy
of men. Perhaps you have a mother, Miss.”

“I have,” replied Rebecca, her thoughts instantly reverting
to her dear native village.

“Oh, may she never experience the anguish of heart I
have felt, in seeing her darling lost to every sense of shame
in this world, and to every hope of peace in the next.

“My husband was a reputable tradesman; we possessed
not the luxuries of life, but we enjoyed its comforts, and
were content. We had but one child; she was the joy
of our hearts, the prop on which we rested for happiness.
My husband had a sister who had lived many years a
housekeeper with a nobleman: this sister was godmother
to my girl, who was christened Jane, in compliment to
her. When Jenny was thirteen, her aunt declared she would
give her a couple of years at a respectable boarding school,
and then think about setting her in some way of getting
her bread.

“I had forgot to tell you, Miss, that my husband and
self lived upwards of twenty miles from London, and it
was with great difficulty we brought ourselves to part with
our darling; but confidering it would be for her interest to
go with her aunt, we at length consented, and were satisfied
with seeing her at holliday time, and exulted not a
little at the evident improvement discernable in her person
and manners, whenever she renewed her visit. The two
years were past, and Jenny, taken from school, was placed

with an eminent milliner, in which business her aunt promised
to set her up when her apprenticeship expired.

“It happened one day, when she had been to dine with
her aunt, that going up the front stairs, to fetch something
from an upper apartment, she was met by a young gentleman,
who stopped, made room for her, and bowed as
she passed him. The next day, as she was at work in the
shop, the same gentleman came in and asked to look at
some gloves; she arose to serve him. “Bless me, Miss,”
said he, “did I not see you yesterday at Lord Melvin's?”
She answered in the affirmative.

“I was there,” said he, carelessly, “to receive her
Ladyship's order concerning the alteration of some furniture.
I have the honour to do the most of the upholstery
business for them.”

“They then fell into chat. He wondered he had never
seen her before, as he was so well acquainted with her aunt,
and begged leave sometimes to call and inquire after her
health. From this an intimacy took place, and Mr. Smith
made proposals of marriage, which were approved of by
the aunt: he even mentioned buying her indentures of her
mistress, that the union might be expedited. But in the
midst of this Jenny could not help remarking, that Mr.
Smith never asked her to his house; but her aunt said it
was his tenderness for her reputation that prevented him.
And he began to hint that he had made several lucky hits
in the lottery, and should leave off business, or at least
throw it into such a line, that a few hours attendance every
day would be sufficient, and the rest might be performed
by persons whom he would employ for that purpose.
Things were in this state when we were wrote to, and the
match, as represented by her aunt, being every way beyond
our expectations, we freely gave our consent; nay, so delighted
were we with the hope of her being so well settled,
that we made our neighbours partakers of our joys, and
our daughter's good fortune was universally talked of.
One evening, as we were sitting in our little parlour, talking
of our future prospects, among which was the hope of
seeing our dear girl and her husband, immediately after
her marriage, we were startled by a loud rap at the door,
and Mr. Harris having opened it, our poor Jenny rushed
in, pale, breathless, and to all appearance sinking with

fatigue. My love, you are welcome, said I, catching her
in my arms; this is kind indeed to make us so early a visit —but where is your husband?”

“Husband!” said she, wildly; “I have no husband.
Who told you I was married?”

“Your aunt wrote us word, my dear, you were to
have been married four days since.”

“She laid her hand upon her forehead, as though endeavouring
to recollect something.” “I believe it was so,”
said she, “but that aunt of mine is a sad woman, for
though I thought I was married, it was all a falsehood.
And do you know, my dear mother, I am a poor undone
creature; but do not spurn me from you—indeed I am
not wilfully guilty.”

“Here she paused, and, sinking on her knees before us,
her emotions became so violent, that she was unable to
proceed, and we conveyed her to bed, in a state little
short of absolute distraction. For several days she was unable
to give us any account of what had befallen her. She
was feverish, sometimes delirous, and when any lucid intervals
appeared, too weak and languid to be capable of
speaking more than two or three words at a time. When
she began to recover, she gave us an account that almost
broke our hearts; indeed her father never held up his head
again, but drooped and pined till a consumption put a
period to his existence.”