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

“She told us, that at the time appointed her mistress
gave up her indentures to Mr. Smith, and she accompanied
her aunt and lover to his house, which was situated
in a newly built street: was small, but commodious,
and elegantly furnished; which she attributed to his having
been in that way of business. Here, it seems, they
were, as she thought, married; Mr. Smith saying, he had
an objection to public weddings, and did not mind a little
extra expence to have things conducted with delicacy and

privacy. Two days after her marriage, her husband said
he should be obliged to leave her for the night, having a
little business to transact a few miles out of town, but he
would be with her again by dinner the next day. After
he was gone, feeling herself rather solitary, she put on
her hat and cloak and went to her mistress's, where she
found several of her old companions preparing to go
to the play. This being a diversion she was fond of, but
little persuasion was necessary to get her to join the party;
accordingly, attended by a genteel young man, they proceeded
to Covent-Garden, and got a very excellent seat
in the two shilling gallery. The first act of the play
was nearly finished, when a little bustle in the stage-box
occasioning Jenny to look that way, she saw her husband
enter, leading a very plain woman, superbly dressed, and
take his seat beside her on the front row.

“Look, Lucy,” said she, to one of her companions,
“would you not almost swear that was Mr. Smith.”

“Why, it is Mr. Smith,” returned the girl, innocently,
“I am sure it is him.”

“If,” said the young man who was with them, “you
mean the gentleman in the stage box, with that ordinary
woman, you are mistaken in the name; that is Mr. Ponsonville,
eldest son to the earl of Melvin.”

“But I am sure you are mistaken,” cried Lucy, with
vivacity. “You will give a lady leave to know her own
husband, I hope, and Mrs. Smith here claims that gentleman
as her property.”

“I am sorry for it,” replied the young man, “for I
am convinced that is Mr. Ponsonville, and that Lady beside
him is his wife; my father has made his clothes ever
since he was a boy.”

“Jenny, who had sat in silent agitation during this little
dialogue, now ventured to ask if he meant the son of
Lord Melvin, of Melvin Court.”

“The same,” he replied.

“A confused idea now rushed into her mind, that she
had been vilely betrayed. She was sensible that the person
she saw was the man she called her husband; and if he was
in reality Mr. Ponsonville, and the husband of another
she was utterly ruined. These reflexions prevented her
having any enjoyment of the play, and at the end of it she

requested the young man to see her into a hackney-coach,
as she found herself not inclined to see the entertainment.
She drove immediately to her aunt's, but the coachman
was not able to draw up to the door, on account of several
carriages. She got out at the corner of the square, and
proceeded on foot to the house, where she arrived just as
an elegant chariot drew up. Curiosity led her to go near,
in order to see the guests alight. The chariot door opened,
and Mr. Ponsonville alighted, handing out the same lady
she had seen at the play. This was proof sufficient; she
was too near then to be deceived—Ponsonville and Smith
were the same. She staggered a few steps forward, faintly
articulated his name, and sunk lifeless on the pavement.

“Mrs. Ponsonville, though plain in her person, possessed
a humane heart: she saw her fall, and ordered the servants
to raise her and carry her in, and giving orders for
her to be taken care of, left her. Whatever Ponsonville's
feelings were, he disguised them so well, his lady did not
in the least suspect his interest in the fainting Jane. And,
having informed Lady Melvin of what had happened, she
requested that the orders she had given might be enforced
by her Ladyship; and Harris was ordered to take particular
care of the young woman. The servant summoned
to receive these commands informed her Ladyship that it
was Miss Harris, who, they imagined, was coming to see
her aunt, who had fainted, and that she was now recovering
and in the housekeeper's room; the Ladies therefore
imagining she was in good hands, made no farther inquiry.

“When Jenny recovered she began lamenting her hard
fate, and accusing her aunt of deceiving her; but that
kind relation would not let her proceed.”

“What would the fool be at,” said she; “keep your
own secret, and nobody that you need care for will be the
wiser; besides I have had your interest at heart and your
fortune is made. Here (continued she, going to a beaureau)
here is a settlement of five hundred a year as long
as you live.”

“Jenny caught the parchment from her, and tore it in
pieces: “Thus perish, (said she) every sign of my dishonour—what
are riches without innocence.”—“As you
have lost the one, you might as well have kept the other,”
said her aunt.

“Jenny left the house without deigning a reply. The
next morning early Ponsonville was with her. Hard was
the struggle between love and honour; for she really
loved her seducer with the most enthusiastic passion. His
sighs, his tears were infectious; she requested till the next
day to consider, but she was well convinced to deliberate
was to be lost, and be had no sooner left her, than she
ordered a chaise, and flew for protection to the arms of
her parents.

“But we soon discovered that the poor girl's misfortune
would be made public. We were pitied by some,
laughed at and ridiculed by others, and the finger of
scorn was pointed at my unfortunate child whenever she
ventured abroad. We sold all our little possessions, and
repaired to London, where we thought to hide our shame
in obscurity. Here my poor husband paid the debt of
nature, and Jenny became the mother of a fine boy.
As she passed for a widow, and was in the full bloom
of beauty, it is not to be wondered that she should be
addressed on the score of marriage by a young man who
kept a persumery and toy-shop in the neighbourhood.
Jenny's heart was still too full of the idea of Ponsonville
to suffer any other attachment to grow on it; but poverty
began to stare us in the face: she saw on one side, a
mother, a child pining with want, no protector, no friend
to comfort and relieve them; on the other, a home, a
protector, and a place of refuge for those objects so dear
to her heart. She acceded to his proposal and was married.
Three years passed on in tranquillity at least, and
my daughter was the mother of another boy and a girl,
but I saw she was not destined to be happy: her husband
was frequently morose and peevish, and spent much of
his time at clubs and public houses. But I knew they
had a good business, and therefore did not dread her
experiencing the evils of poverty. One day, as I was in
the shop, I saw a chariot draw up, and immediately called
Jenny to attend. She came just as the gentleman
descended and entered the shop. “Good heaven!” exclaimed
he. Jenny turned pale and leaned against the
counter. The gentleman recollected himself—“Is not
your name Harris?” said he, advancing.

“No,” said she, saintly, “it once was, but I am
married.”

“Cursed fate!” cried he, vehemently. “I am at
liberty, and have sought you with unremitting diligence,
to do you the justice your virtue merits.”—At that instant
her eldest boy ran into the shop. Mother, said
he, taking her hand.

“And whose is this cherub?” said he, taking the boy
on his knee, for he had seated himself.

“Mine,” replied Jenny.—“And what is your name,
my sweet fellow?” to the child.

“Ponsonville Smith,” said the boy.

“Ponsonville,” cried he, visibly agitated. “Ponsonville;—and
how old are you?”

“Four years last Christmas.”

“Jenny,” cried he, taking hold of her hand. “Jenny,
my love, how like a villain I have behaved to this boy
and you.”

“He drew her towards him with one hand, while
he embraced the child with the other. She sunk on a
seat beside him, her head sell on his shoulder, and they
both wept.—What a moment was this for the husband
to enter,—he did enter. Jenny started, a deep blust
was succeeded by a deadly paleness, and it was with difficulty
we got her into the parlour.

“Ponsonville, now Lord Melvin, made some trifling
purchase, and went away. I saw the storm that lowered
on her husband's brow; it burst forth in cruel invective,
and, having traced Lord Melvin, and from some
officious person learnt the whole story, he was not content
with reproach only, but added even blows, and at length
proceeded to that pitch of brutality as to turn my child
and her unoffending offspring into the street. Lord
Melvin called to inquire for his boy,—he heard the tidings,
and never rested till he discovered our place of
retreat. Miserable indeed was the apartment where he
found his Jenny. He offered her independence for herself,
her mother, and children. I blush to add the remainder,
but let no one boast their virtue till the cold hand
of poverty has tried its strength to the utmost. Jenny
accepted his proposals, and for seven years, affluence
was her portion—but alas, not content; her heart bled,

her anguish was undescribable, but she wore the smile of
conent on her face, and the misjudging world thought
her happy. Alas! (she would say) alas! my children,
what does your mother sacrifice for you. But my Lord
died suddenly, and died intestate: there was some flaw
found in the settlement made on Jenny, by his heir, and
she was again reduced to poverty. When the human
mind has gone a few steps in vice, how easy does it proceed:
my Jenny had associated with women whose situation
were like her own; by degrees her mind lost that
strong sense of rectitude which nature had implanted
there, and she yielded, without compunction, to the
solicitations of another lover. I will proceed no farther;
she is now gone, and in her last hours regretted the loss
of that purity of heart which alone could have enabled
her to meet that awful moment with composure.”

The tears that sell from Mrs. Harris's eyes encouraged
Rebecca. She slid from her seat on her knees before
her. “And can you, my dear Mrs. Harris,” 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 virtuous person. Oh! rather
stretch forth thy hand and save her. I am innocent
now, be thou my guardian angel, and deliver me from
this dreadful place. I can work, Mrs. Harris,—I am not
ashamed to work, even in the meanest capacity—I will be
ashamed of nothing but dishonour.”

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 ſhe">she should find a stand of ,
and proceeding 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 innocence, retired to a homely but clean bed,
and enjoyed several hours of uninterrupted repose.